


Bonfire Heart

by JessieBlackwood



Series: People Like Us [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Professions, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Romance, fledgling relationship, medical AU, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: Greg Lestrade is the Senior consultant cardiothoracic surgeon in charge of heart transplant patient, Sherlock Holmes’, care. Mycroft is Sherlock’s mysterious older brother and a prominent member of the governing board for the private hospital Greg works in.  Detective Inspector John Watson is Sherlock Holmes’ partner but Mycroft seems determined to keep John and his brother apart. Greg must juggle his own problems with those of his patient in order to make sure Sherlock’s anxieties are settled but what is it about Mycroft that rings alarm bells in Greg’s head? Can he thaw the Iceman’s heart and help his brother to recover, and even save Mycroft from himself?





	1. Spark to a Flame

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Probably won’t be suitable for those who are a bit squeamish, it’s a medical AU with cardiology procedures described as best I can (considering I am not a doctor) with the research I can do on the internet. I have done my level best to be accurate but I might have taken a bit of license for the sake of drama. So if operations, blood, needles and hospitals squick you out, be warned. It’s also a bit whump on both Sherlock and Mycroft. On the upside, I would definitely not object if my doctor looked like Mr Graves.

_People like us—we don’t…_

_need that much,_

_just someone that starts,_

_starts the spark in our bonfire hearts…._

_James Blunt_

_Bonfire Heart_

“I think the operation was a complete success...Ow!” The well-aimed slap across the back of Philip Anderson’s head shocked more than it hurt but it stung nevertheless. 

“Don’t bloody jinx it, you moron. How many times do I have to tell you? Don't count your chickens before they hatch.” 

“Sorry, Mr Lestrade…” Phil rubbed his head and looked contrite for as long as it took for his boss to leave and then made a face behind the consultant’s back as the man disappeared down the corridor. Sally Donovan, the theatre sister, glanced over and frowned.

“Oh, very adult response, Phil. What’s up? He being a bit superstitious again?”

Phil sighed. “It’s ridiculous. Why the hell is he superstitious? He’s a doctor, not a bloody spiritual medium. Sometimes I just don’t understand him.”

“Oh, come on, Philip, every surgeon has his little quirks. Besides, it’s unlike you to criticise. Everybody knows you worship the ground he walks on.”

“Contrary to opinion, I do not worship him, Sally. I _respect_ him, very much as it happens.”

“Well, he may be Head of Cardiology, but you’re not so bad yourself, so take my advice and button it when you’re in his presence, okay? You won’t do yourself any favours if you don’t.”

“Well, I’m not in his God-like presence right now, Sally, and anyway, I don’t see why I can’t express my own opinions…”

“Oh, you can, just take care what you say in front of him. Unless you want to find yourself out of a job, that is. That man has very high connections…”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Phil Anderson retorted, then huffed in annoyance at her pitying look and stalked off. Sally watched him go, shook her head in exasperation and began to change her scrubs. 

_God that feels good,_ Greg Lestrade thought as the hot water soaked the tiredness from his muscles. He needed a drink, preferably in agreeable company, but since his wife had left him for her squash coach he felt less and less like making the effort to socialise these days. He sighed again as the spray eased his sore shoulders and then he soaped himself quickly and thoroughly. He did not want his body odour to be resonant of the operating theatre when he went to see how his patients were doing. 

“God, I'm tired,” he muttered into the shower spray. A six hour operation was routine for him, but he wasn’t getting any younger. That much intense concentration was wearing, even though he knew some surgeries could take much, much longer. Arthritis was creeping up on him as well and he flexed his aching fingers, allowing the hot water to ease the joints. Damn it all, he was in his mid-fifties and it felt more like he was in his eighties sometimes. If this damned disease progressed as he thought it was doing, his surgical career was not going to go on for much longer.

He wandered through to his bedroom seeking clothes, a towel wrapped around his waist. Still a trim waist, he was pleased to note, but he had to work harder at that too these days. He glanced out the window on the bright but cold day, feeling like he was in limbo. The period between Christmas and New Year always did that to him. The skeletal trees in the quadrangle below waved in a light breeze and frost still covered the grass. At night, the trees would come alive with Christmas lights, but right now they were drab, grey, and depressing. 

Greg’s apartment in the residential wing of the private hospital was comfortable and had a nice enough view over the small park in the center of the building complex, but it was still a bit impersonal. There was little of his own mark upon it yet bar a few trinkets, because it was temporary until he could get himself somewhere of his own. The upside was of course that it was in central London, convenient for the city and Greg need only walk a short distance to get to work in the morning, but it rather felt like he was unable to distance himself from it all. Not that he was very good at distancing himself from his work. He sighed, wondering for the umpteenth time if that was what had gone wrong with his marriage.

The divorce had left him with his BMW, two suitcases of clothes, a few photos, four boxes of books, a shelf unit full of DVDs, a case containing his punk music LP collection, and his beloved guitar. Part of him considered it a sad fact that what remained of the last twenty years of his life could be neatly condensed to fit into his car. His fingers stroked the headstock of his guitar in passing. He hadn't been about to let her claim his Gibson, even had she wanted to. He plucked the strings in a desultory fashion. The arthritis probably wouldn’t allow him to play that for much longer either. _Another part of my life bites the dust,_ he thought regretfully. 

There would be time for future planning and house hunting later though. He was still smarting from the divorce, and coming to terms with being single. He knew he hadn’t yet fully got used to being on his own, and even if Lynn was making an attempt to be civil, she wasn't always that successful. They were not friends. They had not exactly parted amicably—they were both more than a little bitter about it—but he had let her take the house, for the sake of the girls, on condition that if she sold it and moved on he would be owed half its market value. They also split their combined savings down the middle, because he couldn’t in all conscience take it all. He had really not wanted to fight her over the details. They settled amicably enough on splitting the girls’ school fees between them. Neither of them would suffer financial hardship, they both had decent salaries; Lynn was in a very lucrative fashion agency position, and he was head of his department. He didn’t begrudge his lasses their school fees though. He missed Jenny and Tish, and their whirlwind energy rushing through his life. They were both clever girls, and would go far, and thankfully didn’t hate him, or their mum, for separating. 

He actually smiled when he thought back over the time he and Lynn had broken the news to the twins that they were seeking a divorce. He had worried about telling them, getting almost no sleep the night before. Even given the girls were fifteen, heading for their sixteenth birthdays, and no longer children, they were still legally underage, and needed one parent to be responsible for them. Neither were they stupid, and it turned out they had already guessed what was going on.

“Oh God, Dad, don’t angst over it,” Jenny had replied. “More than half our class have to decide which parent they’re going to go stay with over the holidays as it is. Nobody will be surprised if we have to do the same.”

Both girls had elected to stay with their mother, which hadn’t been a surprise. Girls of their age needed a woman’s advice and support, and Greg had to admit he didn’t really understand the female of the species. Lyn had always complained that he didn’t understand her and he had no real idea what he’d done wrong, no clue why the marriage had fallen apart, despite all his attempts to save it. They had just...drifted further and further away from each other. 

“There were a few things we got right though,” Greg had said with a smile.

“Such as?” Jenny had asked.

“You two,” he said. “Best thing we ever did.”

Clean and dry, Greg dressed in a fresh snowy white shirt and boxers, and his charcoal grey three piece, with the blue tie and the blue silk-lined waistcoat. He added the final necessary touches before leaving; his Rolex, his pager hooked onto his belt, his stethoscope slung around his neck and his ID badge on the lanyard around his neck. Finally ready to face the wards again, he shovelled his keys and his wallet into his trouser pockets, slipped his mobile into his waistcoat pocket, and stepped into the quiet corridor outside his flat, pulling his door closed as he did so. The thick carpet of the hallway muffled his footsteps as he walked quickly toward the lifts, passing original abstract paintings hung at intervals on the neutral dove grey walls. No expense had been spared to make this into a luxury living space. The private hospital offered its resident staff all the comforts of home as well as superbly equipped facilities. The residential wing was more like a four star hotel, with a restaurant on the ground floor and a gym and swimming pool in the basement. It was separate from the main thoroughfare, but one could access the hospital via a covered way through pleasant gardens. He quickened his steps across to the hospital though, it was freezing outside.

Checking his phone on the way he found quite a few messages had backed up. There was a text from his father, asking how he was and how was work? Mum was asking when he might visit, urging him to come for New Year, and how were the girls, etc, etc. There was another from Lynn, telling him Colin had finally popped the question over Christmas and they were planning a summer wedding. He wrinkled his nose, wondered for the umpteenth time what she saw in the man, and sent a perfunctory congratulatory text back. His daughter, Jenny, had called wanting to speak to him and there was a reminder that he had two departmental meetings on the morrow. He resolved to answer the rest of his messages later and pocketed his phone as he reached the hospital doors, stepping as quickly into the warmth as he could. 

Re-entering the hospital saw no reduction in luxury. Thick carpets cushioned the floors in the public areas, and more original artworks adorned walls and pedestals. A small shop was stocked to the doors with everything for that last minute gift; fresh fruit, artisan chocolates, silk flowers, newspapers, books, toys, jewellery and cards. At this time of year, tasteful Christmas decorations decorated the public areas, and there was a festive feel to the place. Swags of bauble-festooned greenery had appeared everywhere, turkey seemed to be on every menu, and Greg had eaten enough Christmas dinners to last him a lifetime. _Must remember to ask mum for something different at New Year._

Greg murmured a good afternoon to one of the door guards. Patient safety was taken very seriously. Subtle and robust, security was everywhere, day and night, 24/7; uniformed men who were watchful and discreet, backed by cctv placed at strategic points. Lestrade walked past them, acknowledging one or two he knew well with a nod and a smile as he headed for the wards that housed the patients being dealt with by his own team. He was in his eighteenth year of residency and everybody on the permanent staff recognised the tall silver-haired consultant. 

“Good afternoon, Mr Lestrade.” Sylvia added a coy smile to her greeting as he passed the main reception desk. He smiled back and nodded, but kept it polite and remote. Since the divorce, he had seen an upswing in interest from one or two of the single staff which was not altogether unwelcome—proved he still had it, whatever _it_ might be—but one thing Greg never did was mix business and pleasure. Besides he wasn’t ready to date. He was lonely, but he knew he wasn’t ready for the complicated dynamic of another partnership, not just yet anyway.

He called in briefly into ICU to check on his latest patient, a young woman with pulmonary hypertension that had resulted in a complete heart lung transplant. He paused to consult with the ICU staff, but there was no news beyond that she was stable, and everything seemed to be progressing according to plan. Every patient was different, and progressed at their own pace, but she seemed to be doing as well as could be expected. Satisfied, he took the lift to the Coronary Care Unit. 

Greg liked the CCU. It was light and airy up there, the midafternoon sun shining through tall windows of the original buildings, a Georgian facade with a modern extension at the rear. Greg stopped by the nurses’ station on his way. “Sister,” he said, flashing a smile as he leaned on the top of the counter and peered over at the older woman sitting there primly, clad in smart dark blue uniform and crisp white apron and cap.

“Oh, Mr Lestrade. And how are we today?” 

“Not bad, Martha, and how are you?”

Sister Martha Hudson smiled. “Oh, you know me, Greg. I can’t complain.”

“How’s the hip?” he asked.

She stood, collecting a pile of files and dropping them into a tray on the desktop before answering him. “Much improved, I have to say. Twinges a little now and again, but I really can’t complain.”

“Good. They took care of you in Orthopedic?”

“Goodness, yes, they were wonderful. Not to mention the physio. That Matthew is a darling…”

“Why, Sister Hudson, should I be jealous?”

“Oh, would that I were twenty years younger,” she said with a wink.

Greg grinned. “You’re dangerous.”

“Growing old disgracefully, Gregory Lestrade, and don’t you forget it.”

“Quite right too. Might take a leaf out of your book there and try a mid-life crisis.”

“Hm, be careful of that. Men of your age seem to have an unfortunate habit of buying a motorbike and attempting to drive across Russia.”

“Was thinking closer to home really. Buying a bike is fine, but negotiating the M25 can be just as challenging some days.” 

Sister Hudson chuckled. “Oh, you’re a rogue, Gregory Lestrade.”

“Well, too late to change me now. So, back to business. How is our newcomer?”

“Oh, he’s not faring too badly. The poor love’s a bit underweight, isn’t he? We’ve got him settled although he was a little fractious when he last woke. We did get in touch with his brother but he won’t be here for another hour at least. Something about an international crisis and he couldn’t get away.” 

“I gather the brother is the only family?” 

“Oh, no. There are parents but apparently they’re halfway around the world. Brisbane, visiting family.”

“Okay then, I guess we can let them off, considering he was on a waiting list, but seems a bit harsh, not staying with your son in his hour of need.” 

“Now, now, you know better than that,” she said gently. “Everyone is different.” Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “Well, here’s hoping they’re not _indifferent_. Come on, Martha. Walk me to the ward and we can discuss his case.” They chatted companionably as they walked up the corridor, going over the details as they went. 

“Hello, Sherlock, how are you feeling now?” Greg inspected the charts and examined the monitors placed around his patient. The young man propped up on the bed looked pale, ribs starkly defined and skinny arms restless on the light sheet covering him. Despite having a more healthy colour, he was still almost as pale as the white dressings covering his chest and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. However he looked much better than the gaunt and ill young man who had been referred to Lestrade the previous year. “Everything looks kosher,” Greg said. “How are things?”

“Fine. Never better. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Sherlock admitted. He sounded tired. “On the upside,” he said, dredging up a smile, “I’m on morphine?”

“Tramadol. One tenth the strength but it should work as well, and we’ll monitor you, considering your history. Well, your vitals look okay now. You were stable enough to transfer from ICU this morning, and everything is looking as it should.” 

“Is the protection really necessary?” Sherlock asked, glancing at Martha as he spoke. “It makes me feel like I’m infectious.”

“It’s not you who might be infectious,” Sister Hudson replied tartly, examining his chart. Greg smoothed the almost-transparent disposable plastic apron down over his waistcoat with his gloved hands. His grin was hidden by the paper mask over his face. “Infection control, Sherlock,” he said. “You are taking immunosuppressants, which compromise your immune system. When you leave here, I suggest you use a mask yourself whenever you come up against other people, at least for a few months, possibly the first year. For now, we are protecting you from us. Any visitors you have will be expected to do the same. Your room has HEPA filtration with a controlled ventilation system, so the air you breathe in here is clean, and you’ll need to stay off certain high-risk foods, like soft cheeses, pate, raw egg, so no mayonnaise. The Nutritionist will manage that for you though.”

“I shall endeavour to follow all instructions to the letter then.”

“See you do,” Greg said. “It’s all for your benefit.” 

“Thank you,” his patient murmured. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for me. I know Mycroft will probably be effusive, but…thank you.”

“Mycroft?”

“My brother.”

“I see. Unusual names.” The name rang a vague bell in Greg’s head but he couldn’t bring to mind where he’d heard it before.

“Yes, well, we had creative parents,” Sherlock replied. 

“Sounds like it. Well, the operation was textbook, but I won’t say everything went perfectly. Took me a bit longer than I planned, but honestly, I like it when things don’t go absolutely perfectly during the op. Usually means the recovery will be plane sailing. I’m a bit of a superstitious twit there.” Greg gave him a warm smile, reflected in his eyes. “Silly, but there you go.”

“You have your foibles.”

“Oh yes. I’m not the easiest person to live with.”

“None of us are, Doctor.” 

“It’s mister. Consultant, remember? So, no visitors tipped up yet?”

“No, not yet. My brother is probably busy.” Sherlock’s demeanour changed and his reply was guarded. “Look, if you see a man who stands approximately 5’7”, with short militarily-cut grey-blond hair, dull suit, stupid shoes, probably a dark plain overcoat, and answers to the name of John Watson, would you please allow him to see me?”

“Why should we not allow him in to see you, Sherlock?” Greg asked, a little puzzled. Sherlock barked a laugh, and then winced. “Careful,” Greg advised. “Take it easy there.” 

“He may be skulking around out there, but he’ll have ID with him. Detective Inspector John Hamish Watson. He’s with Homicide and Serious Crimes, New Scotland Yard.” Sherlock sounded proud.

“Why will he be skulking around? If he’s a copper, he’s no reason to skulk. Although if the police want to speak to you, it can wait. You’re not really ready to face questioning. Are you in trouble with the law?”

Sherlock sighed. “It’s not like that. Damn it all. Mr Lestrade, I suspect my brother has issued an edict that nobody be allowed to come near me while I recuperate, yes?” Greg glanced at Martha and frowned as she nodded.

“Yes, actually,” She replied. “Your brother did ask that nobody be allowed to disturb you, unless it was himself or your parents.”

“Generous of him. Can you can tell the prig to get lost? John is my partner, although Mycroft refuses to acknowledge him. He doesn’t want him anywhere near and he’s threatened to have him demoted if he catches us together.”

“Okay. Well, you’re an adult, Sherlock, so what do you want?”

“My interfering prick of a brother to keep the hell away, but he won’t.”

“If you’d rather keep him at bay, we can call security to evict him.”

“I’d like to see you try. Do you not know who he is?”

Greg shook his head. “Should I?” 

“Does the name Mycroft Holmes not mean anything to you? Despite the fact I want him gone, he’s on board of this hospital.”

“He is? Can't have been on it long then. And despite what you might think, I don't know everybody who sits on the board. Most of them are not even doctors. He must have kept a low profile.” Although the name did ring definite bells, despite Greg not being able to bring the face to mind.

“Hm, he does have a habit of that. Likes to think himself the power behind the throne, as it were. He was appointed little over a year ago, although he’s been endowing this hospital with a very generous sum indeed for a few years now. Thinks he owns the place. As for doing anything to keep him away, I advise you to take care, he’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. He works for the government and he has friends in very high places.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one who has friends.”

“No, I mean it, Lestrade. Do not underestimate him…”

“Sherlock, keep calm. You’ll do yourself no favours if you get upset.” He watched his patient visibly rein in his feelings. “Now, don’t undo all my good work here, and don’t disrespect the poor bugger who donated his heart. He didn't do it just so you could ruin another one. Okay?”

Sherlock paused, thinking. “Out of interest, do you know who my donor was?” 

“Actually yes, I do. At least, I’d not be allowed to tell you his name, even if I knew it. If you want to know that you can go through Patient Liaison and make a request. If the family don’t mind, then they’ll be allowed to tell you. The most I can tell you is he was twenty five years old, a university student studying his masters.”

“How did he die?”

“Apparently, he lost control of his motorbike. Hit a patch of black ice, slid into the path of a car coming the opposite way. That’s all know about him. All I need to know really.”

Sherlock frowned. “Probably not a good idea to tell my brother about that…”

“Oh? Any reason…?”

“Bit too close to home,” Sherlock said, then changed the subject, deflecting Greg from what was obviously a delicate matter. “I thought accident victims’ organs were no use for donation.”

“Done your research, I see, and you’re right. It’s not usual. If he’d died at the scene, then the organs would most likely have deteriorated too much to be of use. He was alive when they brought him in but unfortunately he’d sustained too much damage; broken pelvis, internal bleeding, blood volume had dropped too low. He died on the operating table. However, he was on the donor register, so they kept him on life support, preserved the tissues.”

“Sounds a bit macabre really, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe, but as a result, you weren’t the only one he managed to save.”

“How many did he help?”

“I think he managed to help around twenty, probably.”

“So many?”

Greg nodded. “Oh yeah. One person can help up to fifty people, can save the lives of around eight.”

“Even I wasn’t aware we had _that_ many organs.”

“Well, you can donate major organs like your heart, your lungs, your kidneys, but there’s a host of other tissues too; the cornea and sclera from your eyes for instance. Skin too. In an otherwise healthy person there’s a very long list.” 

“Well, I am...very grateful. I would like his family to know that. John says it brings them comfort sometimes, to know their loved one has served some purpose beyond death.”

“Sometimes it does, yes. You need to go through Patient Liaison for that though. When you’re feeling better, I can ask them to get in touch if you like?”

“Alright, yes. Thank you.” Sherlock looked a bit thoughtful. “John would find that...an acceptable result.” Sherlock yawned, somewhat pointedly. “Could I rest now?”

Greg grinned. “Sure, but we’ll have you up in no time. Right, I’ll leave you to Nurse Hudson’s tender mercies. If John Watson calls you, refer him to me first please. He’ll have to follow the same protocols.”

Greg stripped off his gloves, mask and apron and binned them before he left the room, disinfecting his hands from the dispenser on the wall. He headed back to the nurses’ station, in time to see a figure who fit Sherlock’s description of John flashing a warrant card and trying to extract information from the nurse on duty.

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but you’ll need to speak to Sister…”

“Look, I only need five minutes…”

“Inspector Watson?” The man whirled, startled. “Greg Lestrade, Head of Cardiology.” He held out a hand and the man shook it, speechless. “Come on,” Greg said gently. “You and I need to have a little chat.”

Greg motioned the man to a seat in his office and sat back behind the large desk but Watson remained standing. Greg regarded the inspector for a moment before the man spoke and when he did it was quiet and controlled.

“I would like to be allowed to see Sher...Mr Holmes, please.”

“I gather this is not police business.” Watson looked trapped. “I am also given to understand you’re together?”

Watson looked surprised. “He and I, we’re…” Watson stopped and swallowed convulsively. He wouldn’t meet Greg’s eyes and stared resolutely at the floor. 

“Partners?” Greg asked, and Watson nodded unhappily. “Ah...you’re not married to him yet.”

“No, not yet. I...I was about to ask him, I had...I have the ring, but his condition deteriorated and his bloody brother…” Watson’s mouth twisted in anger, but he mastered his emotions quickly. “His brother took matters into his own hands and tried to ban me seeing him. He’s spent the last month at his brother’s home, before being admitted here when the donor was found but I wasn’t told that one had been. Nobody has told me anything…”

“Well, Sherlock asked for you, although he warned me about his brother. The prognosis is very good, John, I’m sure he would want you to know that. However, he’s post-op so we're monitoring him constantly, making sure the new heart works. He'll be with us up to four weeks, depending on his recovery rate, then he’ll have a lot of post-op checks and physio and tests for the next few years. However…” Greg stopped. Watson was clearly moved, fighting his emotions again, bracing himself in an almost military stance and pinching the bridge of his nose. Greg rose from his chair and went to him, positioning a hand under Watson’s elbow. 

“Plea….” The man’s voice failed. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “Please, may I be allowed to see him?” There was a desperate note in the man’s voice. “Even for a moment… Anything would be good. I’ve not seen him for a month. He sent me a text, before his brother took his phone off him. Nobody has told me anything since and...”

“Inspector Watson...John. May I call you John?”

“Of course.”

“John, technically, you are not family. If the elder Mr Holmes found out about this I am given to understand that he is powerful enough to cause us both a heap of trouble…” “Look, you could simply tell him I lied, told you I was his half-brother or something…” The phone rang, interrupting them.

“Sorry. ‘Scuse me, I'd best get that,” Greg said, picking the phone up. 

“Greg?” It was Martha Hudson. “Mr Holmes is on his way. ETA thirty minutes. I thought you should know.”

Greg checked his watch. “Thank you, Martha. I’ll be ready.” He replaced the receiver. “In about half an hour or so, Mr Holmes is calling here, so you’d best come with me.” Greg got up and left his office, John following, puzzlement on his face. Greg went to the nurses’ station and asked where Sister Hudson was. They were pointed down a corridor and Greg went down it to another office, this one much smaller. “Wait here,” he said, knocked and went in. The seconds stretched out and John was getting jumpy before the two emerged and Martha Hudson regarded John with a shrewd look. She turned to Greg and nodded.

“I’ll field his arrival,” she said. “I’ll page you when he gets here.”

“Thanks, sister. John, come on and make it quick.”

“What?”

“Come on, quickly.” Greg set off, not waiting to see if he was followed. When they arrived at the room, Greg opened the door quietly and turned to Watson. “Give me a minute.” he said and disappeared inside. The young man in the bed was still awake. He turned to look at his consultant and smiled tiredly.

“Doctor…”

“Mister, remember?” Greg smiled. “I’m your consultant, not your doctor. So, still feeling okay? Up to having a visitor?” 

“Not too bad, all things considered. Why, is my brother here?”

“Not for another twenty minutes at least, but I think I might have someone else that you know. A certain Detective Inspector of your acquaintance, maybe?”

“John? John’s here? How…?” 

“He was lurking out here and I dragged him into my office…”

“Please let me see him…”

“Sherlock, relax, please. You need to talk to your fella about a few things. He needs to know what’s happening with you. You need to start looking after yourself properly, eat better, get more sleep, not to mention remembering to take your immunosuppressants for the rest of your life and not missing your check up appointments. You maybe need to let him help you with that, yeah? How long have you two been together anyway?”

“Two years, give or take,” Sherlock admitted. “Fell in love at a crime scene. He’s been my rock over the last few months, Greg, although we’re not living together yet. I know John wants us to...to marry, but my brother…he controls my finances, he had it changed when I was arrested for drug use…”

“Can he do that?”

“He did. He’s dangerous, as I said. He has connections… Royal ones, not to mention other...government agencies.”

“Well, your brother’s on his way and I can’t give John long, but at least let him know you’re okay? It’ll all get sorted out somehow, but you need to put yourself first, at least for a while...”

“You’ll let him in though?” 

Greg nodded. “Seeing as how you obviously want to see him.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, I’ll be back later. When I knock on the door, though, John has to go. We better not let him be found out. Absolutely no snogging too, got that? You’re vulnerable to infection right now.” Greg let himself out and faced an agitated John Watson. “Off you go then, I think you might get about 15 minutes, no more.” John looked stunned. 

“Honestly?”

“Honestly. Here, put this on,” he said offering a mask for the man’s face. “He’s vulnerable to infection at the present moment, so please do not get too close to him, okay? Clean your hands with the antimicrobial soap too, dispenser is on the wall. I know you probably want to snog his face off but that’s really bad right now. Don’t make me come in there. Get your arse in there now, otherwise we might both be seeking new careers. Do not tire him, do not make me regret my decision. Tell him how you feel.” John adjusted the paper mask over his nose and mouth, shot his benefactor one brief glance and then went in. 

Greg leaned against the cool corridor wall opposite the door and frowned. _What kind of world is it when two people who love each other are prevented from visiting in hospital by some homophobic upper class twit who is obviously still living in the 19th century and controlling his brother’s life for him?_ Seven minutes ticked passed and then his pager beeped. Damn it, it wasn’t long enough. Greg glanced at it and sighed, the levered himself away from the wall. 

**Security called,** it said simply. **Holmes on his way up**. Greg took a deep breath, knocked on the door and went in. The two men were holding hands and deep in conversation. 

“Sorry to intrude, gentlemen," Greg said regretfully, grabbing a mask and cleaning his own hands as he talked. "I’m sorry it wasn’t even ten minutes but your brother is here, Sherlock. John, you should make yourself scarce. Toss your mask in the bin, and get gone. Turn right on exiting the room, take the first fire exit stairs on the left, less than five yards away. I’ll call security to meet you and guide you outside again.”

“He stays,” Sherlock demanded. “I want it known he has a right to see me. I want John to stay…”

“Sherlock, stay calm, otherwise I’ll get the nurses to sedate you. As far as I am concerned, if you say so, he has the right to see you. However, softly, softly, eh? Let your brother come visit, let John go while he does. If what he says is true, it’ll be simpler for both of you. John, leave your number with security for me, I’ll call you tonight. I’ll arrange a longer visit tomorrow. How would that be?”

“That would be amazing. Come on Sherlock,” John said gently. “At least I’ve managed to see you this time.” The man looked close to tears. He kissed Sherlock’s knuckles through the mask. “Stay calm, love. Let this play out. Now I know you’re safe, I’ll sleep easy.”

“You stay safe, John. Please. I...I love you. And I _am_ sorry.”

“Berk,” John said affectionately. “I love you too. We’ll make this work, don’t worry. We’ll get through this.”

“Go, John. Martha is a formidable woman but she won’t be able to hold him forever.” With a quick hand shake, John was gone, out the door. Greg picked up the phone and quickly called security.

“Rachid? Yeah, Greg Lestrade. Look, I have a John Watson exiting the building, he’s a DI with the Met. He’s currently heading down fire exit stairs B. Would you meet him at the bottom and guide him out, please. Make it the back way, eh? Keep a low profile. I don’t want him getting lost.” There was a pause as Rachid gave his assurances that he would deal with it. “Thanks, Rach. Oh, and make sure he gives you his phone number, okay? I’ll get it off you later. I need to contact him again.” Greg put the phone down and turned to Sherlock. “There, all sorted,” Greg said, but Sherlock was shaking his head.

“John deserves...better…better than me...”

“What? Why?”

“Because he’s so very loyal and I...I adore him. I wanted him to make a clean break from me. I wanted him to realise there is no future for us…but I find I can’t...I’m not strong enough to break it up.”

“What the f...Why would you even try that?”

“My brother, that’s why. He’s already made things very difficult for us. John is a good policeman. My brother could get him thrown out.” Sherlock subsided and tried to calm his breathing. Then he turned slightly desperate eyes on Greg. “My brother is a _very_ powerful man…” 

“I am glad you recognise my talents, brother dear,” said a dry voice from behind them. Greg whirled and glared at the newcomer. He immediately knew the face; hawk-nosed, with a pair of piercing grey-blue eyes and dark hair that caught the light with reddish glints. Greg had seen him from a distance, most often with other members of the board, usually deep in conversation. He had thought him attractive in an aloof kind of way, always immaculately dressed, never in anything less than a classic, most likely bespoke, suit. There was a filial resemblance, but a slight one. Where Mycroft was sleekly groomed, Sherlock was all messy dark curls. Mycroft’s eyes were darker blue, Sherlock’s disconcertingly pale. Greg judged there to be the best part of a decade between their ages, and against Mycroft’s calm arrogance, Sherlock seemed full of restless energy. Even immobile in a hospital bed, Sherlock managed to radiate impatience.

“Mr Holmes?” Greg said to the visitor. “Doubtless Sister Hudson suggested you wait. I am in the process of conducting my examination, and you do not have a mask...”

“I am sure you can continue doing so. I won’t hold the proceedings up. Sherlock, how are you? I was so worried.” Greg muttered something. “What was that? I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you, Mr Lestrade.” Mycroft’s brows pulled together in a frown.

“Don’t,” Sherlock warned, sotto voce. 

Greg huffed a short sigh, and stepped smartly to the sink unit near the door. He pulled a paper mask from the supplies on the shelf above it, holding it out to the elder brother. “Please put this on, and clean your hands, the dispenser is here,” he said, patting the top of it. “If you have a problem with that, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” he said plainly. “I’m sure you have no desire to put your brother at risk.” 

Holmes regarded the paper mask dubiously but considering the consultant was also wearing one, he couldn’t really refuse. He had no wish to put his brother at risk anyway, despite the man’s abrupt attitude. So he complied, deftly slipping the mask into place, then he turned around to find the dispenser. Greg turned back and pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist, checking his pulse. Then he studiously ignored the elder Holmes in favour of completing his examination.

“Did everything go as planned?” Mycroft asked eventually. 

“Well,” Greg replied, standing back and looping his stethoscope around his neck again, “it’s a bit too soon to tell but I think the prognosis is good. We’ll have the results from your bloods back soon and we’ll keep checking, but at the moment,” Greg paused, reached out and tapped a nearby wooden shelf, “Touch wood, it’s looking positive.” 

He did not miss the elder Holmes relief. The man visibly relaxed, although he sought to hide it. “You’ll have already been informed of this, Sherlock, but just to reiterate, you’re stuck here for a few weeks in order to make sure everything is going according to plan and then, once you leave, we’ll be scheduling monthly checks to make sure your new heart is working okay. We will refer you to a rehabilitation clinic thereafter, to get you settled into your life as a transplant patient, and hopefully we’ve given you at least ten years more than you were facing. The oldest transplant patient survived over thirty years so you never know. Now, get some rest. If you feel like sleeping, then listen to your body and do so, you got that? You have a private word with your brother now. If you need anything, press the buzzer. The nurses will help you.” Greg fixed the elder Holmes with a look. “I’ll speak to you later, Mr Holmes, please. See me before you go if you will. The nurses will point you to my office. For now, ten minutes only, do not upset or tire him, alright?” Greg turned and left the room. 

Greg reached the nurse’s station to find Sister Hudson frowning at him. “What?” he asked, immediately on the defensive.

“That bloody man, he’s sour enough to curdle milk,” she said venomously.

“Yeah, well, there’s apparently nothing I can do about him,” Greg replied. “He’s direct family. I do want a word with him though, he’s not above the rules here. Point him to my office when he leaves, yeah?”

“Oh, Greg, take care, love. I don’t like him, not one bit, but I would never tell him to his face. Holmes is a very powerful man. He has _connections_ …” she hissed softly. “You know it’s rumoured he pulled strings to move his brother up the transplant list…”

“What? You are not seriously suggesting…Jesus, Martha, do not spread rumours like that. That's a serious breach of…something, ethics, conduct, I dunno, might even be criminal. Don't accuse him of anything like that unless you have incontrovertible evidence."

Martha Hudson shrugged. “Well, whatever you do, don’t antagonise him. It isn’t worth the risk, Greg. No matter how much we hate him, he’s on the hospital board...” 

“I don’t care if he’s the bloody King of England. The man is a rampant homophobe with a stick so far up his arse Google couldn’t locate it,” Greg snapped. “I can’t believe he’s Sherlock’s brother. Plus, I have connections of my own, thank you.”

“Where did you get the idea that he’s homophobic?” Martha enquired. “We are talking about the same Mycroft Holmes?”

"What do you mean? What else could it be, trying to keep his brother away from the man he loves?"

"Well, as far as anybody knows, Holmes the elder is gay. Had a partner himself until a couple of years ago."

"What happened? Did the man come to his senses?"

"Greg," Martha scolded softly. "The poor man died, in a car accident..."

"Ah, sorry. Yes, bit crass of me. Oh, I see now why Sherlock said it was too close to home."

"What was?”

“Sherlock’s donor died from injuries sustained in an accident on the motorway, head on collision apparently, said it was probably not a good idea to tell his brother.”

“Probably not. Holmes took it very hard. It changed him apparently, and not for the better.” Martha sighed a little sadly. “Marriage changes you,” she said, “but grief does more damage..."

“You wanted to speak to me, Mr Lestrade?” Holmes stood in his office doorway a half hour later, cool as cucumber in his Harris tweed, leaning on an umbrella. Greg raked an assessing glance up from the man’s feet to his auburn hair. Fierce blue eyes glared at him, _like a bloody bird of prey,_ Greg thought, _especially with that nose_. Holmes gave off the indignance of a fluffed up owl with the air of an apex predator. 

“What,” Greg demanded gently, “was that?” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable and Mycroft Holmes eyes focused on him with a sudden intense scrutiny. 

“I beg your pardon?” His tone was low and dangerous. That tone had resulted in lesser men wetting themselves, awaiting his next words.

“Mr Holmes, this is a hospital, with rules!” Greg said, undeterred and unintimidated. “The rules are there for a good reason…”

“Mr Lestrade, you do know who I am?” Mycroft drawled, disbelief echoing in the words. “Yes, I do, and as such, I would have expected you of all people to know better than to barge into a patient’s room without the proper precautions.”

_The audacity of the man,_ Mycroft wondered, watching him closely. _Oh, the arrogance of the consultant surgeon._ Mycroft gave a put-upon sigh. “I am sure you will enlighten me, Mr Lestrade…”

“Mr Holmes, right now you have no idea how big the fuck is that I do not give concerning who you are. You could be the head of MI5 for all I know, but it doesn’t matter. Even the Queen follows protocol here..." 

Mycroft scoffed. “I highly doubt that. Besides, I only have a _minor_ governmental position…”

Greg put it out of his head that Her Majesty had indeed followed protocol when she visited her newest great grandchild after the toddler’s operation last year. Very few people knew about that visit, before Holmes’ time obviously. He could argue the toss but the visit had been kept off the radar and their majesties probably wouldn’t appreciate his verbosity, considering Holmes was something minor in the government. So he stared at his visitor with all the gravitas he could muster. “Look, I don’t actually care who you are. There is a warning on the door that infection protocols are in place, and you must follow them. Your brother is on immunosuppressants, and he’ll be on them for the rest of his life, to make sure that his body’s own defence mechanisms don’t reject the new heart. They suppress his immune system, which means he’s vulnerable to infection, of any kind. We cannot risk exposing him to any infection just yet. Which means you take precautions before you enter his room from now on. You also spent longer with your brother than I recommended too. It’s been…” he checked his watch, “...at least half an hour since I left you. If I recommend you spend no more than ten minutes, there is a reason behind it. I’m not interested in how much money you’ve donated, or the fact that you’re on the board. What I do care about is my patient’s recovery. From now on, please stick to the rules. You certainly cannot go near your brother without a mask over your face until further notice, you got that? Right now, even a minor infection could cause a lot of problems.” He turned to find the elder Holmes staring at him with... _was that interest?_ He felt like a bug impaled on a pin. “Your brother is recovering as expected. I have few doubts as to a complete recovery and I will do everything in my power to effect that. However, there is something that is distressing him, and I think you should know it is having a negative impact on his recovery.”

“Oh? And what would that be, Mr Lestrade?”

“I think you know, Mr Holmes.” The two men locked gazes but Greg was practiced in that and did not break the look. It was Mycroft who glanced away first, scrutinising his watch with an almost bored air that gave Greg to believe he could have won, had he so chosen. _Bollocks,_ Greg thought. 

“Mr Lestrade, is this going to take long? I am pressed for time. Enlighten me, please.” 

“Mr Holmes, please don’t ban my patient from seeing the people he wants to see. I won’t countenance anything that may compromise his recovery.”

Mycroft Holmes regarded him with pity. “Mr Lestrade, you are a consultant with a specialisation in cardiothoracic surgery. I am reliably informed you are the best this hospital, indeed possibly this country, has to offer, but you are not a psychologist. My brother’s state of mind has fluctuated alarmingly over the last decade, so much so that his affairs are legally in my hands and have been since he entered drug rehabilitation six years ago. I control who comes into contact with him very, very carefully. As I am sure you are aware, his history is chequered, and not particularly savoury. I once feared, with good reason, that he would not reach his majority, and the result of his actions have now threatened his reaching thirty.” 

“Six years ago?” Greg queried. He had been under the impression it was over a decade since the younger Holmes had been in rehab. “Mr Holmes, I think you should know, technically your brother should not have been eligible for transplant…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Drug users are not usually considered good prospects for transplant. It’s a good job the rehab was successful and your brother hasn’t had any relapse, although…” Greg fixed Mycroft with another hard stare, “...his records state _twelve_ years since he was in rehab, not six. Such a close distance in time would have put a different slant on his eligibility.”

Mycroft regarded him cooly, composure not one whit compromised. “Did I say six?” he replied smoothly. “The mind plays tricks where time is concerned. It was a stressful time for my whole family, as this has been.” 

_Yeah,_ Greg thought. _So stressful, your parents have gone on holiday to the other side of the world and left you to deal with it. Aaaaand you are patently bullshitting me. Stressful time, my arse. Your memory isn’t compromised that much..._

“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” Mycroft was saying, “for performing the operation that saved him, however I do not think you understand his mental state. I would therefore appreciate it if you now bowed out and left his after care to someone else…One of your team perhaps?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I am not used to repeating myself, Mr Lestrade.”

“And I am not used to people ordering me around, Mr Holmes.”

“Nevertheless, you will hand my brother’s case over to someone else forthwith.”

“Or?”

Mycroft gave the man a look. “Mr Lestrade,” he said carefully, “I strongly suggest that you do not try my patience. I am on the board of this hospital...”

“I suggest, Mr Holmes, it is you who are trying mine. I am senior cardiologist at this hospital with fifteen years impeccable service…”

“I can assure you, not for very much longer.”

“Threatening me now?” Greg sighed. “Look, Holmes, your scare tactics won’t work on me. I’m quite capable of fighting dismissal. I have a bloody good lawyer and contacts in the newspapers. Unless you want bad publicity over wrongful dismissal and a lawsuit for loss of earnings and defamation of character, I suggest you rethink. Exactly what do you hope to achieve anyway? I am not handing over your brother’s care to anyone, and even if I wanted to, I certainly would not do so yet. While he’s off the critical list, he’s still _my responsibility_. Hostilities aside, I have a duty of care and his care is my priority.”

“Mr Lestrade, you will do as I say.” Mycroft was coldly calm.

“No, I will not...” A loud insistent beeping reached his ears. He glanced down at his pager. _Oh, bugger..._

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Holmes muttered sarcastically, but Greg had taken one look at his message, muttered something too low to hear, and bolted for the door. Mycroft watched him leave, eventually venturing to follow, noting the unusual activity in the corridor. A team of people pushing equipment rushed by him, and he followed, realising belatedly that they were rushing to his brother’s room...


	2. Fire in the Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated but not in a good way...

“Get him out of here!” Greg snapped, and Mycroft found himself bundled unceremoniously out of the doorway by an orderly and a nurse, who shut the door in his face. Horrified, Mycroft simply stood there, his own heart racing. There was frenetic activity in the room as people rushed in and out, and all he could do was wait, marooned in the sea of people as, for all he knew, his little brother crashed and burned. Moments later Sister Hudson guided him away, offering tea and murmured reassurances he went, battening down his feelings with ruthless determination. Letting the staff see his weakness was not an option. 

“That was close, Sherlock, do not do that again to me, please.” Greg stood away and the nurses moved in, checking and monitoring and settling as everyone put things back to normal. “Jesus, you’ll give _me_ a heart attack one day.” 

“What was it? What was happening to me?” 

“You got yourself stressed, that’s what happened. You had all the indicators of a full-blown panic attack, which is common in transplantees, but not something to leave untreated. Everything will be okay, honestly. We’ll be monitoring you for this now though. I’m scheduling another ecg for tomorrow, we’ll check your electrolytes and cardiac enzymes, and your liver and kidney function, just to be sure there’s no physical cause, but I’m pretty sure you’re reacting to the stress. You can learn to recognise the signs, and there are strategies to cope if you get any more. We can put you on Citalopram if you need it.”

“What does that do?”

“Antidepressant. It should have a positive effect.”

“I…I’m sorry,” he murmured, contrite. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want my parents to find out about John unless I tell them. My brother…”

“I know. Look, Sherlock, do your parents actually know what’s happening to you right now? Do they even know you’re in hospital?”

“They know I’m on the list, but this was rather quick. I don’t know if Mycroft told them…” 

“Okay, leave that with me. Now the nurse here is going to give you something to settle you for tonight, and you can rest. No fretting about anything more, okay? We’ll get things sorted. You’re not alone with this.” Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. “Good. Now, I’ve got to go explain to your brother what just happened. Wish me luck, he already wants my head on a plate.”

Greg stepped out of the room and took a look each way down the corridor. He sighed with relief. There was no sign of Mycroft Holmes. 

His job was far from stress-free, and Greg had entered the profession well aware of it. He also knew he had done himself no favours over the years, wearing his heart on his sleeve. Several people down the years had told him more than once not to get too involved with his patients and their families, but it was hard not to. He took them at their worst and put them back together, gave them a new lease of life, a better outcome, and in some cases, literally saved their lives. Greg always tried to stand back, to be objective and deal with each case individually. However, a lot of his success came from treating the whole person, not just their body. He could repair hearts and lungs, perform transplants and delicate corrective surgeries, but unless his patient was happy and content, their healing would not be as successful. Right then, he was unhappily aware that Sherlock might be one of the unfortunate ones. Unless patients had the support of family and friends, the love and comfort that brought with it, the outcome was often not as positive as it might otherwise be. Holding the patient’s whole family together, giving them instruction and support, was all part of the job so far as he was concerned. 

Over the course of his career, he had lost a few patients, mercifully very few on balance, and sometimes he had to shoulder the task of being the bearer of bad news when he knew there was nothing more to be done. More often than not, though, there was something he could do, it was the whole reason he had become a surgeon. While a few of his transplant patients had already passed away, he had to accept that it was par for the course considering he had been in the business nearly eighteen years. He was quietly pleased many more of those whose operations he had been part of were living beyond the predicted average of ten years, and things were improving all the time. Techniques and equipment were improving, as was the research and the clinical trials. He really hoped he could give Sherlock the chance of a long (and happy) life. 

This time, Greg wondered what the Hell he had got himself into, realising he was putting himself between these two eccentric brothers for the sake of his patient’s recovery and sanity. He was risking a whole shedload of trouble by defying Mycroft Holmes. He leaned against the wall again and took out his phone, scanning the list of messages. He needed a bit of space to think. Possibly a bit of sound advice. Over the years Greg’s skills had garnered him a huge number of grateful thanks not to mention dozens of Christmas cards. Sometimes, though, no amount of cards and good wishes were enough. The old adage came to him, _Healer, heal thyself,_ and at those times he turned to his own family for support. What with the divorce and now Lynn telling him she was remarrying, on top of everything else, he knew he needed a bit of clarity from another source. When he needed that, he usually called his stepfather. The man was a steady grounding force in his life and never failed to offer up a balanced viewpoint. He sent off a brief text and then he went in search of the infamous elder brother. 

Mycroft Holmes was in the family room, sipping tea. Greg could see him clearly through the narrow window in the door. To look at him, no one would think his younger brother had recently undergone a heart transplant and even more recently suffered some post-op difficulties. He looked far from the worried man whom Greg had ordered out of the room less than a half hour ago. His elegant legs were crossed at the ankles and he was staring out of a window, cradling a teacup and watching the wind in the trees. _Damn it,_ Greg thought. _Why does he have to be so damned attractive into the bargain._ There was something about the man’s lean frame, his blue eyes, long feet in those handmade shoes… not to mention that fucking bespoke suit.…His rebellious brain spent a few fruitless moments computing the size of other bits of the man’s anatomy from the size of his feet. The thought was pleasant but the earlier hostilities depressed him. The fingers of his left hand suddenly chose that moment to twinge painfully and he winced as the joints cramped. _Bloody fucking Hell, why now?_ He massaged them vigorously. On top of everything else, that was all he needed. He sighed, straightened his back, and went to face the music. 

Greg opened the door of the room, fumbling the handle with the heel of his hand in an attempt not to put pressure on the finger joints. As he entered, there was a brief flash of hope in the man’s eyes before he masked it, and annoyance settled back in, and Greg tried to smile reassuringly, as a result. The hope might have been fleeting, but it was revealing. Under the veneer, that steel facade, Holmes really was worried about his little brother.

“Mr Holmes, good news. You can relax for the moment. Your brother is fine.”

“Thank you, Mr Lestrade.” The ice in his voice was unmistakable, _but I saw your expression, Holmesy, and there’s no hiding it._

“Look,” Greg began, shoving his hands in his pockets, “sorry you got tossed out there but there’s no room for civilians when we need to get the crash team in there as well.”

“Understood. So, may one ask what happened?”

“A blip, nothing more, and not an unusual occurrence. He’ll be fine, but he must remain calm. At present, he has some anxiety concerning his...situation. He suffered some palpitations and difficulty breathing.”

“In other words, a panic attack?”

“Not all that uncommon in transplantees. We’ve sedated him to mitigate any stress.” 

“Understood. Now, about what I said earlier.” 

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“I am sorry if you were offended by my suggestion.”

Greg hesitated, momentarily thrown by the apology. “That’s quite alright, Mr Holmes.” He allowed himself to smile, prepared to be magnanimous.

“However, I still expect you to hand over his care at your earliest convenience.” 

_Might have known the détente wouldn’t last._ “I’m sure you do,” Greg said, genially. 

“Am I given to understand by your tone that you won’t comply?”

“Why should I?” 

“You actually want me to spell it out to you? I am in control of my brother’s affairs until he is capable of caring for himself again.”

“Mr Holmes, if I may say, if it is twelve years since your brother came out of rehab, it seems a bit strange for you to still be legally responsible for his affairs. He doesn’t seem to have incurred impaired capacity as a result of the drug use.”

“This is ridiculous. It has no bearing on his case.”

“Mr Holmes, he signed his own consent forms. If he was deemed not to have capacity, you know as well as I do it would have caused no end of bureaucracy. You would have signed those forms, not him. So, you cannot use that excuse with me.”

“I am not making excuses. The fact remains that I say who sees him and who does not. If I want to choose a different doctor, then I have that right. If you choose to defy me…” 

“Which I do,” Greg said, almost cheerfully.

“...I shall make sure you will rue the day.”

“Then I know where I stand, don’t I?”

Mycroft seethed. “Do not cross me, Mr Lestrade,” he almost snarled.

“I could say the same to you, Mr Holmes. You’re insulting me by suggesting I hand over Sherlock’s case to someone else, just because I am concerned for his well being. I get the feeling nobody ever stands up to you, do they?”

“Most people have more sense, Mr Lestrade.” 

“You say ‘jump’, and they ask ‘how high?’.”

“On the contrary. If I order someone to jump, they would do so without asking.”

“Am I to understand that includes off a cliff?” Greg snapped sarcastically. “Look, I get that you’re in a position of some power, Mr Holmes. You’re on the Hospital Board, you have some mysterious job for the Government, and you think you can snap your fingers and everybody comes running. Well, not me, Mr Holmes. I put my patients first, and I am not at the beck and call of some...bureaucratic paper pusher who has no idea about my patients’ needs.” 

“Paper pusher? Is that what you think I am, Mr Lestrade?”

“You’re a civil servant, Mr Holmes, and you’re on the hospital board. To my knowledge, the board members are not medical personnel. They are managers and financiers. Frankly, I don’t care what you do. Whatever you are, the fact remains that you don’t scare me. Maybe it’s time someone stood up to you. Bullying me won’t work. I don’t condone bullying in the workplace, or anywhere else, come to that. Now,” he pointedly checked his watch. “I’m late for my rounds. See yourself out.” 

Mycroft was left staring at the door as it closed on Lestrade’s retreating back. A little stunned by Lestrade’s vehement opposition— _nobody has ever stood up to me like that before_ —Mycroft had to admit a grudging respect for the man’s bravery, despite bravery being, in his opinion, by far the kindest word for stupidity. He owed his baby brother’s life to the man, despite any other heart surgeon maybe being capable of the same. The fact of the matter was, his brother’s saviour was Lestrade. Some small part of him was also perversely attracted to the tall silver-haired consultant with the soft brown eyes and broad shoulders, but it was currently a very small part. The man was a leader, used to people following his instructions, but he was confrontational, hard work, and quite...demanding. Mycroft was still too damaged to be of use to himself sometimes, never mind anyone else. He was also starkly aware of his physical shortcomings, despite the knowledge that he had been loved, and worth loving. Victor had been special, and Mycroft Holmes had no illusions that he may not find another who would see in him what Victor had seen.

In his other job, Mycroft Holmes was in his element. He walked the corridors of power and majesty with the confidence of years of being indispensable. He carried himself with quiet dignity, impeccably dressed in his Saville Row, seamlessly blending into the background as though he had been born to it. Omnipotent, his peers had called it. He could take facts and process them with alarming speed, assess the variables and predict the outcome of events with startling clarity and accuracy. In another life, he might have settled for being an insurance underwriter, or one of Lestrade’s aforementioned financiers maybe, but Mycroft had not settled for anything short of the best. He was advisor to the highest, and a diplomat extraordinaire. He had been the power behind mutually satisfying treaties, favourable trade negotiations and successful political campaigns, he had met with potentates and politicians the world over, but now…whatever he did, there was a hollowness to it all. In truth, there was a hollowness to everything around and about him. 

“Mycroft, good morning.”

“Ah, good morning, Freddy. How are things today?”

Frederick Buckley, The Queen’s Equerry, regarded him warmly. “All’s quiet on the Western Front, as they say. How are you holding up? You sound tired.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. With anyone else, he would have vehemently refuted the observation, but he trusted Freddy Buckley; the man was calm, dignified, sane and possessed of a subtle sense of humour. “I am well, but recently…” he paused, sighing slightly for dramatic effect. “Things have been…a little fraught.”

“Your brother is recovering well though, I understand?”

“I wasn’t aware that you were cognisant of my brother’s situation?”

“I have my contacts, Mycroft, just as you have yours. Earl Grey?”

Freddy always offered him tea. Mycroft always accepted. It was always exquisite tea, perfectly brewed, and not to be dismissed. They sat in companionable quiet for a while, by the fire in winter, by an open window in summer, merely sipping their beverages and allowing the drama of the past few weeks to dissipate around them. They fell to discussing the business of the day and reviewing the last few weeks only when their tea was finished, a monthly ritual that never altered. Mycroft kept Freddy apprised of what was going on in Whitehall, and anywhere else of note, and had done so for years. He imparted information that did not come through the official channels but that Mycroft always made it his business to learn; Information that perhaps was sensitive enough not to be trusted to official channels in the first place. Rumour and fact alike was discussed, and the merits of each weighed and measured. It was enlightening for both of them. 

“So how is life on the hospital board, may I ask?” Their business was concluded, or Freddy would never have moved on to small talk. He was genuine in his interest, however, and never asked anything unless prepared to listen to the answer. If pushed for time, both men were always honest about it. 

“Oh, agreeable,” Mycroft replied, sincerely. “I am given to understand things are on the up. The financial predictions are now quite positive. We have reviewed our charges, staffing levels, and the suppliers of goods and services. I am pleased to note, while we have not compromised quality, we have managed to save money here and there by judicious review of our codes and practices. The Hospital Trust was far too mired in tradition. It’s all very well being loyal to a specific supplier but the market is too competitive to rely on one source these days. So far, however, there have been minimal complaints at the changes, and improvement across the board.”

“That’s good. Things have improved a great deal since you joined. Tedious, perhaps, compared to your other duties, but your input is being looked upon with gratitude.”

“That’s rather good to know,” Mycroft acknowledged, flattered. 

“That particular establishment has a rather sentimental attachment to their majesties. It cannot be allowed to merely fail. But it is a business, and needs to be run like one. The surgeons are exceptional, but the previous administrator was an idiot.”

“The previous administrator had no business sense. The current one is more level headed.”

“Well, it has now encouraged the acquisition of more experts in their field, prestigious names....”

“It had a few of those anyway. Keeping them was the problem. Not to mention making sure the difficulties did not leak out to the press. The hospital’s reputation remains unsullied, however, and yes, we have appointed some rather reputable names in the last six months.”

“Well done on that score, by the way.”

“Thank you. Unfortunately one or two egos are getting in the way but that is to be expected when you are foremost in your field.”

“I’m sure you can tame them, Mycroft,” Freddy said, smiling confidently. “As I mentioned, your efforts have not gone unnoticed. There has been talk of a knighthood...”

Mycroft tried not to preen. He knew he was good at his work, but to have an acknowledgement that others, particularly _those_ others, had noticed, well… _A knighthood? Holy God, what will mummy say?_ Momentary sadness threatened to overcome him at not being able to share his good fortune with the one person who mattered, but...he battened it down and sipped his tea, and carried on. He would make sure the one thorn in his side was made aware of how far his power and influence carried, of what he could achieve if pushed. Time to make certain people rue the day they had crossed him.


	3. Under Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft escalates the conflict.

A day later, a letter, handwritten, arrived on Greg’s desk. He opened it with trepidation, and sighed when he read it. It came from the CEO of the hospital, Daniel Grint, who went on to say that it had come to his attention that Greg had been accused of gross misconduct in direct contravention of his contractual obligations to the hospital, etc., etc., and that his hands were tied but he had no choice but to suspend Greg without pay until an investigation could be completed, etc., etc.,. 

_Is that so? Eighteen years hard work, including promotion to Head of Department, and now this… Of all the gutless…You couldn’t even speak to me and tell me to my face?_ Greg was fuming. _This has to be Mycroft Holmes’ doing. When will someone stand up to the man?_ Greg was about to pick up the phone and call his lawyer when there was a knock at the door, and Martha Hudson poked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Greg. There’s someone popped in to see you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t have an appointment,” she said with a smile. “Moreover, he says to tell you he’s in a hurry.”

Greg grinned, put the phone down and followed Martha out of the room. There was only one person who would call on him without an appointment and go on to say that _he_ was the one with no time to spare. Around the corner was a familiar face, his eyes dancing with mirth as he spotted Greg. “Hello, son. How are you?”

Greg sighed and smiled and grabbed the man for a hug. “I’m okay, Dad, how are you?”

“I was fine until I got a text from my son telling me he needed a chat. Thought I would drop in and see how my boy was doing. Have you got time to talk to your old man now?”

“Yeah, sure. Look, come through to the office. Coffee?”

His father nodded and followed. “So, how are the girls?”

“Fine. Jen is doing her Duke of Edinburgh Award, she came back from teaching English in Tibet just before Christmas, and they’re both busy with GCSEs. They’re in their element, Dad. They’re taking this divorce much better than I am.”

“You brought them up to be independent young ladies, with level heads on their shoulders. So, have you heard from Lynn at all?”

“Decree absolute came through last week. We’re done. She and Whats-his-face are getting married in summer, and before you ask, I have no idea how that makes me feel. Anyway, how are you and mum getting on in the new place?” His parents had recently moved into a lovely house in Harrow a few weeks ago.

“We’re both fine. Your mum’s had a bit of a sniffle but she’s getting over it. I’m in fine fettle, as always. We had the new neighbours across for lunch last weekend. Nice couple. He plays golf...” 

“And how’s little Victoria Eugenie?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Toddling about the Palace with the best of them. You did a good job there, Greg.”

“Due for her six monthly check up soon, I think.”

“They’re all very grateful, you know. There have even been rumours concerning a knighthood…”

“God, dad. Don’t joke.”

“I’m not joking. Seriously, Her Majesty wants to reward the man of the moment.”

“Christ...Seriously? I… I only did what any other cardiologist could have diagnosed. Besides, it was a team effort. Rayne did most of the surgery, her hands are better suited for the small stuff than mine. She should be up for some reward as well really.”

“Out of interest, she is. MBE, whereas yours is likely OBE. Don’t forget you were the one who diagnosed her condition and got her treated, and you said yourself it was a rare condition and not easy to spot. You deserve the accolades, Greg. You’re one of the best there is, and you know it. Anyway, your mother wanted me to ask if you’d come see New Year in with us?”

“You know I’d already planned to.” Greg brandished the letter. “However, as of the end of the month, this _one of the best_ might be freer that mum expected.” He wasn’t surprised when his father took the letter off him and scanned it. “I’m not taking it lying down. I was just about to call my lawyer.”

“That bad, hm? Who did you upset this time?”

“Dad, I am not given to deliberately upsetting people…”

“Unless you don’t agree with their point of view.”

“When it hurts other people, including my patients, then no, I don’t.”

“So?”

“One of the Board members. Mycroft Holmes.”

His father made a face. “You do pick your enemies, don’t you?”

“You know him?”

“Know him? I take tea with him once a month at the Palace. He’s my inside man in Westminster.”

“So that's what he does when he's not here. Minor position, my arse. Well, whatever else he is, he’s a bully and a bigot, and I don’t like him at all.”

His stepfather frowned. “We are talking the same Mycroft Holmes? He’s always very pleasant when we speak. A little reserved, restrained maybe, but certainly not bigoted. He’s a fine brain, brilliant in his own way.”

“Well, you know what? I don’t think anyone has ever stood up to the man.”

“Possibly not, but I think you may be mistaken about him. Some people treat him like he's the power behind the throne, but it’s a front really. He moves in very confidential circles and he does have a degree of power. The PM listens to him, and he’s a very able negotiator. He's also a very good friend of The Firm*, like his father before him, and an exceptional brain. However, even Mycroft Holmes isn’t indispensable. None of us are.”

“I would agree with you there.”

“Since he lost his partner, must be nearly two years ago by now, Mycroft hasn’t been the same man. He’s closed himself off somewhat. He’s a clever man when faced with negotiating trade agreements or conversing with the hoypoloi at a garden party, but it’s mostly flimflam, a front, a carefully constructed mask. He doesn’t make friends easily.”

“That’s what Martha Hudson told me. Well, I had no intention of upsetting him, believe me. He’s the elder brother of one of my patients but he’s making the man’s life a misery and now he wants me to hand over his care to someone else...”

“That would be young Sherlock. So what happened?” His father sat back as Greg outlined the story. After a good twenty minutes of explaining, Greg’s dad sat back, his expression thoughtful. “To cap it all,” Greg added, “I think he’s used his influence to pull strings and managed to doctor his brother’s records…”

“Greg, my boy, can you back any of this up with evidence? If you can’t, then think very carefully, otherwise I am sure I do not have to spell it out for you what Holmes could do. A lawsuit for defamation of character would be the least of it.”

“I highly doubt I can find any solid evidence. Holmes isn’t stupid enough to leave anything obvious, but he talks about Sherlock’s drug use like it’s a recent thing, but if it was, or it was spread over a long time, Sherlock most definitely wouldn’t have been looked on as a good subject for transplant. His records say it was twelve years ago, and there have been no relapses, but Mycroft slipped up and said six years the other day. He threatened me, to my face, when I pointed it out. Told me he’d have my job unless I handed over his brother’s care. Now this.”

“Right,” Greg’s father said, fishing his mobile out of his jacket. “I suggest you get yourself a coffee, and some fresh air. I have someone to speak to. You don’t mind if I use your office?” Greg knew when he was being given his marching orders. He stood up awkwardly. 

“I shouldn’t need you to fight my battles, dad. I’m a big boy now.”

“Greg, you can fight with the best of them, my lad. Just call this a helping hand from the old man, hm? We all need one, once in a while.” His dad smiled. “Still think you’re wrong about Holmes, but…”

“Just please don’t call him, dad. I don’t want it to look like.…”

“I know, you don’t want it to look like nepotism. You’ve made that clear on many an occasion. It’s just about an obsession with you.”

“He doesn’t know about...you and me, does he?”

“No, he does not. I have done as you asked, I have never mentioned you, even when we have been discussing this hospital.”

“You talk about this place?”

“Yes, we do. Mycroft Holmes was asked to take a position on the Board in order to pull this place up by its bootlaces a year ago. You know it was failing, Greg, on so many levels. It has sentimental value to their majesties, and they don’t want to see the place fail. They even, and keep this _very_ quiet, donated a substantial sum to the Hospital's trust, but on condition they be allowed to place someone on the Board who could bring this place kicking and screaming into the 21st century. That person was Mycroft Holmes. He is probably the sole reason you still have a job here.”

“Me?”

“Yes, _you_. I understand you’re so focused on your job, and on your patients, that you probably failed to see the state of the establishment you work for, but believe me when I say, Mycroft Holmes has managed to rescue this place from the Receivers.”

“Well, I knew there were some problems, but it was...well, largely administrative, as far as I knew. Everything is fine now.”

“Because of him, Greg. So the next time you put his back up, remember that at least. Now, this time, you will have to trust me. Go on. Let me see what I can do.”

**0000000**

“What do you mean, you can’t fire him?”

“Exactly that, Mr Holmes. It’s… not possible at this time.” Daniel Grint, CEO of St Edward’s Hospital Trust, cringed as the voice on the end of the phone went cold. 

“What do you mean, not possible?” Mycroft could feel a headache coming on. “He willfully disobeyed my direct instructions concerning my brother, he defied my wishes and you tell me you cannot fire him?”

“Mr Holmes, I…” The CEO considered, and then glowered at the phone. “No, not at this time. I have received instruction from a….a higher source.” 

“Higher source…. How much higher can you get?”

“The Palace, sir.”

“What?”

“I said…”

“I heard you. I… Who, exactly?”

“I am not at liberty to discuss the matter, Mr Holmes.”

“Not at...What do you mean?”

“I am under instruction, sir. Mr Lestrade’s services are... _valued_ , at the highest level. Dear God, man, there is rumour of a knighthood. I _cannot_ let him go. What would that look like? We need his name attached to this hospital, and we need his reputation intact. We do not need a scandal and the negative press coverage that would entail.” 

Mycroft slammed the receiver down hard. _Damn the man! How had he…? Who did he know?_ He pulled his computer toward him and accessed the staff personnel files. 

**0000000**

“Dad?”

“Jenny? Hello, love. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I have a favour to ask though.”

“Shoot.”

“School is doing a ‘take your daughter to work’ thing, and...well, Tish is going to work with mum at the agency, and I was wondering….”

“You want to come here?”

“Well, you know I want to study medicine.”

“I’ll have to check with HR that our insurance covers it, and then we’ll have to look at a day when I’m not too busy, but…”

“Is that a yes?”

“Provisionally, yes, alright. However, my girl, you will have to accompany me at all times. I have no idea what on earth you’ll get out of it…”

“I want to see the inside of a hospital, dad, and, well, honestly, it’ll keep our careers advisor quiet. Besides, I get to spend a couple of days with you.”

“Flatterer.”

“Honestly, dad. I want to see you. One weekend a month is a bore.”

“Bring your overnight bag then, okay? And pack something nice, I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Okay, dad. Text me? Oh, and can you ask if I can observe an actual operation...?” 

**0000000**

Mycroft spent a fruitless hour on his computer, going over the list of records concerning the clinical history of Gregory Jonathan Lestrade FRCS since joining the hospital eighteen years ago as a member of the Cardiothoracic surgery team. He had risen to Head of Department over the course of ten years, and had been in the position for the last eight. He seemed to be one of the longest serving members of staff. Prior to that Lestrade had started his career as a general surgeon in the A&E of The Royal London, becoming a noted trauma surgeon before electing to specialise in cardiothoracic. However, there seemed to be no record of a royal connection, or any dealings with the family. His next of kin was listed as his mother, Veronica Lestrade. Mycroft scoffed at the rumours of a knighthood. That had to be spurious at best. Why on earth would Lestrade of all people be rewarded by a knighthood? If that was the case, then he would have known. _Wouldn't I?_ Mycroft had a feeling he had been scammed but had no idea how. Grint had seemed very sincere. The man obviously believed what he had been told. There was a string of successful operations attached to Lestrade’s name over the years—the man was very hands-on—and quite a few clinical trials under his name that had born outstanding results. However, nothing revealed even a tenuous connection with any of the Family. For a moment, Mycroft toyed with calling Freddy, but hesitated. This really wasn’t the sort of thing to bother the Equerry with. He could wait until his next meeting. 

Greg was waiting for the lift in the atrium when a cold voice cut across his thoughts.

“Mr Lestrade, I have no idea how you did it, but this is not an end to the matter…” 

Greg glanced up to see his nemesis standing less than four yards away, seething. 

“What matter, Mr Holmes?” 

“I think you know to what I am referring, Mr Lestrade. I suggest you stop interfering in my brother’s affairs, and leave him to me.” Holmes stepped closer and lowered his voice, expression ugly. “Cross me and I promise you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

“Mr Holmes, he is _my_ patient.” 

“Not for much longer…”

“Look, I am getting tired of this. Just...stop posturing, and start putting your brother first? I want the best for him and so do you.”

“Stick to dealing with his medical issues, and leave his heart out of the equation.”

“Now, Mr Holmes,” Greg said, stepping into the lift. He pressed the lift button and watched as the doors started to slide shut. “You know as well as I do that his heart is the crux of my involvement.” 

_If looks could kill,_ Greg thought as the doors closed, _I would probably be bleeding out on the floor right now._

Later that day, the supermarket rejected Greg’s bank cards; all of them. He was trying to get wine and chocolates to take to his parents for New Year’s Eve, but even his credit cards wouldn’t go through. Embarrassed and not a little annoyed, Greg had to abandon his shopping. He tried an ATM and the bloody thing swallowed his card. Now beyond annoyed, he called the bank to complain. He knew he had the money, there could be no problem about that. They informed him that his bank account had been frozen, apparently due to suspicious activity. He went home and had a lengthy conversation with the bank concerning what the activity might be. Passed from department to department, and person to person, it took him nearly two hours, and made him late for a meeting. The bank didn’t know what had happened. There was no suspicious activity that they could see. They unfroze his account. Greg asked for a new account and for that one to be terminated in case his details had been hacked. The bank agreed, but it meant all he had for the rest of the weekend was what was in his wallet before he received his new bank cards. Which wasn’t much, considering. It was all bloody inconvenient. The bank apologised but said there was nothing they could do before New Year. Greg snipped his old cards up and threw them away in disgust. He would be able to get enough petrol to get him to his parents and back, and if he was careful, he could manage food until the weekend, despite probably needing to live of beans on toast. Bloody inconvenient, nevertheless.

A day later, his mobile phone account was frozen. Now he was really getting angry. His mobile was his lifeline to his family. He spent another hour on his computer, chatting with a customer service operative named Brett, attempting to get that sorted. The phone company disclaimed all knowledge of what had happened, unfroze his account and suggested they give him a new number. That would mean more inconvenience and entail more time to update people on his new phone number, including hospital records, his professional memberships, family, friends… 

He went over early on New Year’s Eve, landing at his parent’s house for dinner, and spending a nice evening of conversation, giving him the chance to forget the pressures of his job for a while. His mother had even managed to produce an amazing antidote to turkey in the form of a wonderful Beef Wellington. At five to midnight, the television was switched on to the celebrations around the London Eye, and they charged their glasses as the countdown started. As Big Ben struck, they wished each other Happy New Year and toasted each other, and then sat to watch the firework display, listening to the locals setting their own fireworks off all around them. The twins called him and he put them on speaker so they could wish Happy New Year to their grandparents as well as their father. He was not surprised that Lynn did not come to the phone. 

A few minutes later there was a beeping on his father’s computer.

“That’ll be your sister,” his mother said eagerly. “Karen said she’d Skype.” Sure enough, Freddy brought the screen up and accepted the call, and excited voices shouted Happy New Year across sixteen thousand miles like they were in the next room. They spent the next half hour chatting to his sister and his eleven year old nephews, Eddie and Ross, in Brisbane, just starting their day as Greg and his parents were finishing theirs. It lifted Greg’s spirit, listening to their cheerful Aussie voices telling them all about how warm it was, and that they were heading to the beach later for a picnic. It was odd seeing them in summer clothes, while London was freezing. 

After the call, Veronica made tea before they decided to turn in, and had just handed Greg a cup when his pager went off. He swore, silently, and checked it. 

“I’ve got to call work,” Greg said, apologetically.

“Now? It’s nearly half twelve.”

“Part of the job,” he said. “Sorry.” He called the main desk and was put through by the night staff.

“CCU?”

“Lestrade here. I was paged…”

“Oh, yes, Mr Lestrade. Sorry to do that to you. Happy New Year by the way. There was a call from ICU, looking for you. One of your patients has deteriorated apparently.”

“Did they say which one?”

“No, sorry, sir.”

“Why didn’t they page me directly?”

“No idea, sir, sorry. Will you come in? I’ll call them back if so.”

“Okay, I’ll head back. No idea when I can get there, I’m best part of three quarters of an hour away. In the meantime, ask them to call me with the details? I would rather not go in blind.”

The blue lights in his mirror were unwelcome to say the least. “Oh, God, not now!” he groaned and pulled the car into the kerb. He wound down the window as one of the policemen peered in. 

“Yes, officer, what can I do for you?”

“Is this your car, sir?”

“Yes, it is, why?”

“Could you exit the vehicle please?”

“Certainly, officer.” Greg got out and stood against the car, as patiently and as non-threateningly as he could, despite his impatience to get back to the hospital. He watched as one policeman, the elder of the two, wandered around the vehicle inspecting, while the other one questioned him. “Is this going to take long?” he asked. “I'm in a bit of a hurry…” It was also bloody cold and he didn’t have a coat on him. 

“May I see your driving licence, please, sir?”

“I don’t have my driver’s licence on me, I’m afraid. What seems to be the problem?”

“Why do you not have your licence, sir?”

“My divorce came through recently, I’m living at my work at the moment, halls of residence. I sent my licence off to be renewed with my current address last week and I’ve not had it back yet. Probably got delayed in the Christmas post. Look, exactly what is the problem?”

“This car was reported stolen from a driveway in…Godalming, round midnight, sir.”

“I don’t live in Godalming, and I haven’t even been visiting Godalming. I’ve driven from Harrow.” 

“Could I have your full name, sir?”

“Greg Lestrade, Gregory Jonathan Lestrade.”

“And what is your address?”

“Flat 14, Halls of residence, St Edward’s Hospital, Marylebone.”

“Previous address, sir?”

“Oh, 42, Westmoreland Villas, St John’s Wood.”

“This car is registered to Mr Gregory Jonathan Lestrade, of 42, Westmoreland Villas, St John’s Wood,” the policeman said, checking his details. 

“Okay, yes, that’s me, and that is my former address, yes.” Greg opened his wallet. “Look, I have the insurance and MOT documents for the vehicle, it’s mine. Okay?” He handed the papers over and the constable scanned them. 

“So, do you have any idea why your car would have been reported as stolen?”

“I...have no idea. Why on earth do you think I would know?” 

“Prank, maybe?”

“I said I have no idea. Look, officer, I am returning from seeing my parents, in Harrow. We celebrated New Years. Call them, you can corroborate my ID, and the fact that I was nowhere near a phone all evening so I did not report my car stolen for a laugh. Why on earth would I? Exactly what time was it reported? You said midnight?”

“What were your movements tonight, sir?”

Greg sighed. “Seriously? I left my flat at the hospital at just after six, drove to Harrow, had dinner with my parents, my sister Skyped at about midnight, and now I’m driving back….”

“Had a few drinks tonight, sir?”

“It’s New Year’s,” Greg sighed. “Of course I have.”

“I am now going to breathalyse you, sir, in accordance with the road traffic act 1988.”

Greg sighed. “I'm not displaying any signs of being drunk, am I, officer? I know I wasn’t driving erratically, and I was driving to the speed limit.”

“Then you won't mind if we check, sir. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can have you on your way.” Greg decided discretion was the better part of valour and blew into the device, keeping going until the thing beeped. “Thank you, sir.” The policeman showed him the screen. “You are barely under the limit, sir.”

Greg huffed a sigh. “But that means that I am not _over_ the limit, am I, constable?” He checked his watch. Nearly one o'clock. He was beginning to shiver. “Look, is all this absolutely necessary?”

“Got somewhere to be, sir?” the constable asked.

“Yes, Constable. As a matter of fact, I have. Look, you said that call came in after midnight?”

The young man checked. “Yes, sir. 00.05 to be precise.”

“Well, at around that time, we were skyping my sister, listening to her kids wishing us all a Happy New Year.”

“That's a little late for kids to be up, isn't it?” 

“Not if you live in Australia, constable. They were having their breakfast.”

The young man’s colleague joined them again and the two of them stepped away to consult. _Why is this happening to me? It has to be that interfering prick..._

“Excuse me, officers, look, I am not drunk, I have nothing wrong with my vehicle and it _is_ my vehicle. There has obviously been some mistake, maybe someone is playing a prank on me. Might I be allowed to go on my way?”

“We still need to establish your identity, sir,” the elder policeman said. “What other ID do you have on you? Bank cards?”

“Not at the moment. My bank froze my account due to suspicious activity last week, they’ve reinstated it but they’re issuing new cards. Won’t get them until the end of the week…” _And that didn’t sound in the least bit suspicious, did it?_

“Any other form of ID, sir?”

“Such as?”

“Passport, birth certificate?”

“Not things I routinely carry with me.”

“And you are Gregory Jonathan Lestrade, sir?”

“Yes, of course I am. Jesus, can you not call up my photo or something? It’s on my driving licence.”

“Alright, sir. No need to get upset…”

“I’m not upset, it’s bloody freezing out here. I need to get to work and you are holding me up….”

“Work nights, do we, sir?” Disbelief was clear in the man’s voice. 

“I’m on call…” 

“Do you have any idea why someone would have reported your car stolen, sir?”

“How the hell should I know?” 

“Make many enemies, do you, sir?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. I usually do the opposite. Look, I’m a consultant surgeon at St Edwards Hospital, and if you’ve done your background check, you’ll know that. I have been paged, called into work because one of my patients has taken a turn for the worse and they want me in. You are holding me up, and potentially preventing me from my work.” 

“You’re a surgeon?” 

“Cardiology.” The man looked Greg up and down and Greg remembered his work ID was in his inside jacket pocket. He retrieved it and handed it over. “There you go.” The policeman took it and examined it closely. 

“And it has a photo attached, will that do?” The policeman said nothing, but consulted with his colleague. Greg had by this time had more than enough. He got his phone out, dialled, and was unaccountably relieved when it connected.

“Jesus, Greg, bit late to be calling to wish me Happy New Year.”

“John? Thank God.”

“What’s the matter, mate?”

“I’ve been pulled over.”

“Were you speeding?”

“No.”

“Are you drunk? Anything wrong with your car?”

“Neither. The coppers are saying my car was reported stolen.”

“I take it that’s not true.”

“I’m driving it. I’m just on my way back from the parents. I got paged by the hospital at half past midnight, I’ve got a patient in ICU taken a turn for the worse, and they’ve called me in. I have to get there soon and these two are taking their sweet time with this. Look, John, I think this is him, trying to piss me off…”

“What, Sherlock’s brother?”

“Possibly.”

“Damn the man. Look, what’s the copper’s number?” 

“There are two of them.” 

“If there’s an older one, give me that one. Older one is usually the wiser. Man or woman?” 

“Man,” Greg replied and read it to him, catching a suspicious look from the number’s owner. “Okay, leave it with me.” John rang off. 

Minutes later, the constable’s mobile rang. He answered it, and frowned, and then his attitude changed dramatically. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, quickly. “Of course, sir.” He listened to the slightly raised voice on the other end of the phone a while longer, and then glanced at Greg. “Yes, sir. The car registers as stolen on the list… Well, we were told to watch for it… Control flagged it up, sir. Someone made a special request… No, sir, that’s… fine, yes. Of course, sir.” He rang off and stared thoughtfully at the phone for a moment before looking back to Greg. “Well, right then. Seems there’s definitely been a mistake, sir. You are of course free to go.” 

“Thank you.” Greg got in the car and drove off, carefully. _Bloody man,_ he thought. He knew exactly who had perpetrated that ‘prank’. Bless John and whatever he had said to the copper. He had sounded like he was pulling rank. _Probably enjoyed that,_ Greg thought.

Greg took the lift to ICU as fast as he could, cursing the delay. He made for the nurses station, demanding to know where the patient was that he had been summoned to see. The blank look he received was puzzling. “All the patients are fine, Mr Lestrade. We didn’t call you.”

“What do you mean you didn’t call? Someone from ICU called CCU and they paged me. Told me someone had said one of my patients had deteriorated and would I come in. Now you’re telling me nobody called?”

“I have no idea, sir. Nobody made a call from here, not as far as I know. Besides, it doesn’t alter the fact that the patients are all stable at present. Nobody has presented any problems tonight, sir. All told we’ve had a quiet New Year.”

Greg heaved a sigh. “Well, Happy New Year to you, anyway.” Frankly, he wasn’t surprised it was a hoax. Elaborate, true, but a hoax nevertheless. 

“You too, sir. Out of interest, how come CCU thought it was us?”

“I don’t know. I spoke to Kate when she paged me, I called in and she told me it was ICU. Didn’t say how she knew.”

“Okay, sir. Might be worth talking to security? They usually have a log of all calls made from ward phones.”

He went up to CCU, wondering what was going on. It had to be that bloody man, trying his patience and spoiling his day. He had been dragged over half of London, pulled over, breathalysed, his New Year upset… He had been looking forward to a lie-in at his parent’s home, a nice cooked breakfast in the morning. Now he would most probably have beans on toast again… 

“Kate, who called from ICU?” he asked the petite girl behind the desk. She glanced up and frowned.

“Mr Lestrade, sir. I...I’m not sure. They actually didn’t give a name, just said they needed you and couldn’t get in touch. I have no idea why. I didn’t think to ask. I just… it was a hospital number, sir. Came up as ICU on the display, now I think on.” 

“Well, someone is taking the piss. ICU is quiet, all the patients are stable. Nobody required my presence and they’ve ruined a perfectly good New Year with my family. If I find out who did it, I am taking no prisoners, understood?”

“I’ve been on duty here all night, sir. I am sorry I didn’t think to check. I was the one who paged you, after all.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry. I know you had the best intentions. So it definitely looked like an internal call?” 

“Oh, yes, Mr Lestrade. I’m certain it registered as ICU on the caller display.”

He arrived back at his flat by two thirty in the morning, got ready for bed and all but fell into it, but sleep would not come. He spent a frustrated half hour staring out of the window nursing a generous measure of single malt and glowering morosely into the darkness. He woke tired, feeling frayed and less than his best. This was rapidly turning personal. 

He spent New Year’s Day in bed. If anything he felt exhausted and ill. Probably the adrenaline crash after the previous night, but he was in no state to work. He had surgery scheduled early the following day, but all the stress conspired to give him a rotten migraine. He retreated into his darkened bedroom, took his medication and tried to rest. It took him the better part of the day before things improved, and even then he crept about the flat feeling fragile and exhausted. He tried to call to reschedule his surgery for the Tuesday afternoon only to find the theatres were all booked out. He managed to get a reschedule for the following day, then called the ward to cancel, citing an emergency. _Intolerable,_ he thought, annoyed and frustrated. _That bloody man is now interfering with my work._ He retired to bed for the rest of the evening, trying to retreat from the effects of the episode in sleep. 

Lynn called him the following morning, via the hospital switchboard. She sounded annoyed. “Your phone number isn’t working,” she said waspishly. “The school called me because they can’t get in touch with you. Your half of the school fees doesn’t seem to have gone through.”

Greg felt frayed and somewhat delicate, and in no mood for her complaints. “My phone account was hacked. I had to get my provider to give me a new number. I’ve not managed to get around everyone to update them yet, that’s all. Only happened the other day.” 

“Yes, well, you might have made it a priority to tell me.”

“Why would I do that, Lyn? It’s not like I’m high on your priority list any more. Look, what do you mean?” he snapped, patience wearing thin. “The payments are on direct debit.”

“Well apparently, you stopped it,” she replied acerbically.

“No, I didn’t. Look, the bank thought there had been some suspicious activity on my account. The bank are dealing with it. I’ll make sure they reinstate the debits as soon as, okay?” 

“What’s happened? Hacking your bank as well as your phone?” He could hear the disbelief in her voice. _Why does nobody believe me at the moment?_

“Possibly. You know how much fraud there is online now. I’ll call the school later, when I’m free after surgery.”

“Hm, see you do. It’s embarrassing.” 

“Happy New Year to you too,” he muttered, terminating the call. 

“Good morning, Mr Lestrade.” _Fuck, why now?_ Greg pivoted to face his nemesis and plastered a smile on his face. He was determined to show the man he was above all the petty posturing. He could be professional when in a public place. “Good morning, Mr Holmes.” 

“I understand you cancelled an operation this morning?”

“Yes, I was... _am_ feeling under the weather. Not a good state to be in before an op. I’ve rescheduled for tomorrow, so my patient won’t be inconvenienced too much.”

“Under the weather?” Holmes murmured. “Is that what you call it? I do hope your New Year celebrations were not too taxing.” _How dare you infer I got drunk, you bastard. You know what happened._

“Thank you, no, although I didn’t get home until after two thirty. The police had received a prank call and pulled me over. They thought my car had been stolen. It was all sorted out but the stress of it all gave me a migraine. I erred on the side of caution this morning, that’s all.” 

“Hm, well, not a good idea to make a habit of it. Our reputation rides on our good conduct, after all.” _Bastard,_ Greg thought, gritting his teeth. He held his peace. He knew he would be hard pressed to win this one. 

“Yes, well, I wasn’t exactly planning on having a migraine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have someone to see.” Greg stalked off, bristling.

He went for a coffee and then threw in the towel and decided to visit Sherlock. He had no idea what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t sit there in his flat, vegetating and worrying, or his office either for that matter.

“How are you today, Sherlock?”

“Fine.” There was a short pause. “More to the point, how are you? You look like shit.”

“Thanks for that. I’m...okay. Well, I will be, eventually.”

“What’s happened? You’re not sleeping properly… You have...yes, money problems… You’re distracted. Migraine? You’ve had to reschedule your surgery… Should you be working?”

Greg sighed. “How the hell can you know all that? Besides I'm not working, I'm visiting.”

“You’re wearing the same shirt you had on yesterday, it’s crumpled to hell. You haven’t slept well to go by the bags beneath your eyes, you’re still experiencing slight photophobia. You should have been operating this morning, you told me before New Year you wouldn’t see me until this evening. You went to your parents for New Year and...something happened to cause you enough stress to give you a migraine. You have a sauce stain on your tie...You’ve been eating cheap food, beans on toast I would say. Why do that on your salary?”

“Maybe I like beans on toast.”

“You don’t forget to change a tie though, which means you are distracted enough not to have noticed the mark, and you’re squinting slightly.”

“That was… amazing.”

“Not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

Greg laughed softly. “Not me, mate. That was brilliant, really.”

“That’s what John says. So, what’s happened?”

“Your brother, I think. Flexing his interfering muscles.”

“Oh, God. The stupid…What did he do?”

“Messed with my bank account, so I had to get them to make me a new one so I’ve no cash till I get my new bank cards and I’ve been stretched as it’s New Year. All I have to last me the week is in my wallet and it’s wasn’t much to start with. No petrol in the car either now. Messed with my phone account, so they’re giving me a new number. It’s inconvenience, is what it is. Annoying.”

“That’s not all, is it?”

“No. The other night, they paged me from here, asking me to call. Got me at my parents, at half midnight, we’d just celebrated New Years. When I called in, CCU told me there was a call from the intensive care unit wanting me to come in, they said there was a patient whose condition had deteriorated. When I left my parents, I was halfway here and the police pulled me over, told me my car had been reported stolen.”

“You think it’s my brother, setting you up?”

Greg sighed. “Someone knew I was at my parents, and someone called me in. When I got here I went straight to ICU…”

“And let me guess, there were no patients in distress.”

“Nope, none at all. The number registered as being an internal call up here. Looked like it was from ICU.” 

“So you were called out on false pretenses, pulled over, delayed....”

“I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to wear me down. He’ll escalate it until I can’t deal with it anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. He’s a petulant twit, and he loves to be in control.”

“How’s John?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He sneaked in to see me at New Years. I asked them to let him in.” 

“Good. Well, thank him for me, yeah? He dug me out of the thing with the car the other night.”

Sherlock smiled. “He’s a good man.”

“So what’s with your brother?” 

“He’s not the man he used to be, Greg. Believe it or not he used to be a lovely man before…”

“Before?”

“Before Victor died.”

“Was Victor his partner?”

Sherlock nodded. “They were together a lot of years, they were even at the stage of planning a family, believe it or not. Mycroft was a very loving man, a good big brother. He was amazing when we were growing up; adventurous, fun, we got into so many scrapes. Then when he went to university, he met Victor Trevor, and they became very close friends. They didn’t originally get together, though, because Victor was already in a relationship. However, a few years later they met again, both of them free again, and...well, they decided to give it a go. They were very close; happy and domestic and planning adoption. Then one weekend, Mycroft was in London for his work, and Victor decided to drive down to meet him. There was an accident, his car was in a head-on with another on the motorway. Killed instantly, and that was that.”

“So he’s still grieving?”

“Oh yes, in no uncertain terms. My brother’s heart wasn’t just broken, it was shattered, far more than mine was I think. Irreparably so, but it’s not quite two years ago. I think in some warped way he’s trying to prevent me being as broken as he is. His current mantra is _caring is not an advantage_.” 

“Doesn’t matter, Sherlock. He cannot control your life for you to such an extent. He cannot control anybody’s life like that.”

“He can, and he will. I was a drug addict for quite a while, and he took control of my finances and forced me into rehab on the grounds of diminished responsibility. I don’t hate him for it, he’s the reason I am alive, but he blames me, a bit, for getting into this state and he won’t accept that I’m now my own man, that I’m clean and in my right mind.”

“Well, I’m no psychologist, but I have a feeling he’s terrified of losing you as well. Sherlock, how long since you were in rehab?”

“Six years, why?”

“Your records say twelve.”

“Twelve? You suggesting Mycroft had them altered?”

“Might just have been a typo.” _How on earth do I tell you I think your brother might have cheated on your records but I can’t prove it?_ “Doubtless your addiction didn’t help, but your heart problems are congenital. Not your fault, Sherlock. In fact, has your brother been checked out for any heart related health issues?”

“Probably not.”

“If memory serves, your family history states your grandfather died from a heart attack, yes?”

“Yes, he did, and my father has high blood pressure, but he also had heart problems when he was a child.”

“Corrected, though, yes? Sounds like your brother should get a check up as soon as possible.” 

“Making him listen will be well nigh impossible.” 

“Well, I've had enough of him, believe me. Someone else can beard that lion.”

Greg's pager bleeped. Martha was trying to get in touch. 

**Come at once. Urgent. MHolmes collapsed again.**

Greg excused himself without telling his patient what was going on, and made a run for the nurses’ station the moment he was out of Sherlock’s door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Prince Philip apparently refers to the Royal Family as The Firm on occasion.


	4. Fired Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is not in a good place, but Greg comes to the rescue.

Martha was outside room five, hovering. “Oh, Greg, that silly man…”

“Which silly man?”

“Mr Holmes, that’s who. He was coming to see his brother.”

“What’s happened?”

“He fainted.”

“Where is he?”

“The orderlies got him on a bed, in here.”

“Fine…”

Greg elbowed his way through the door and observed two nurses and one of his interns trying unsuccessfully to make the man stay lying down while they attempted to examine him. 

“Enough, please, all of you,” Greg snapped, sweeping into the mayhem. “What on earth is going on?” He held up a hand as two people started speaking at once. “Hold on, please. One at a time. Doctor Marshall, what’s the situation?” He listened as Marshall outlined the patient’s reluctance to be treated, and then Greg looked to Nurse Faraday who gave him a run down of the vitals they had been able to assess, but it wasn’t a complete picture. 

“Mr Lestrade…this is…highly inconvenient…” Mycroft protested weakly. 

“Mr Holmes, please just relax. Do you have any idea why you just collapsed?” Greg took his penlight out and shone it into the man’s eyes. The pupils were equal and reactive. “Do you have any heart problems that you know about?”

“Don't be ridiculous…” 

Greg shot him a pointed look. “Then are you diabetic?” he asked. “Do you have any other conditions you would like to tell me about?”

“For God's sake… No.”

“Are you on any medication?” Greg was methodically opening the man’s shirt buttons as he spoke, despite his patient’s protestations. Flapping hands tried to stall him but he captured the man’s hands gently and fixed him with another look.

“Mr Holmes, please, let me help you.”

“Mr Lestrade… I _insist_ that you stop.” 

“Mr Holmes, Mycroft, please stop trying to resist me. Nobody collapses like that without due cause.” Greg slipped a hand behind his patient’s back and helped him sit forward. Then he popped his stethoscope in his ears and rested the end to Mycroft’s chest. “Breathe in for me, as deep as you can,” he urged gently. After a moment’s hesitation, the man complied, chest expanding obediently. “Good, that’s...good. Keep going. Again please. Okay...” 

Mycroft’s protest died on his lips as those warm capable hands manhandled him gently and firmly to a sitting position. Greg’s expression was intent as he listened to his patient’s heart and lungs. Mycroft felt the stethoscope settle on the skin of his back, under his shirt, and Greg listened again. “Just once more please,” he said, and Mycroft found himself obeying, breathing as deeply as he could. 

Greg nodded. The lungs were clear, heartbeat a little fast. “I need to take your blood pressure…”

“Mr Lestrade, I came to see my brother. I demand to know how he is. You cannot keep me here.”

“Actually I can, if I suspect you are either a danger to yourself or to others.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. After your little stunts, I’d think twice were I you,” Greg growled. He turned to the other people in the room whose curiosity was obvious. “Okay, all of you,” he instructed, “Get gone, now please.”

“But…” Ross Marshall opened his mouth to protest but Greg shook his head.

“Go, now, all of you. Nurse Faraday, please ask Sister Hudson to join me.” They obediently trouped out and he did not speak until the door had closed on them. “Now, Mr Holmes. We are alone, away from prying eyes, and ears. I shall ask again, and please, think carefully. It can make the difference between an easier night, or an uncomfortable one.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“I’m informing you, Mr Holmes. If you are not truthful with me concerning your condition, and if you don’t do as I say, then on your head be it. You could be in for a problematic stay. You’re suffering now, and this needs to be treated. Please…”

“I don’t need this…” The man’s voice was tired, his resistance would probably only need a little push… 

“Any heart conditions you know about?”

“No.”

“Are you on any medication?”

“No.”

“Diabetic?”

“NO.”

Greg dragged an otoscope from a rack and fitted a disposable cover on the end. “I’m just going to check your ears. Just tip your head for me, that’s it.” Greg checked but the man’s ears were clear. “Good, no problems there.” He watched Mycroft swallow suddenly, and then all the fight seemed to drain right out of him and he collapsed back against the pillows, his reserves of energy spent. Greg took the chance to flash his pen light into Mycroft’s eyes again but both pupils reacted equally. He picked up a thermometer and fitted a plastic cover over the end, carefully inserting it into his patient’s ear. “Hold still a moment.” The resulting beep announced a temperature of 101. “Elevated temperature but not severely so, yet.” The consultant dragged the portable blood pressure monitor over and wrapped the cuff high on Mycroft’s arm. A plastic clip with a red light was fitted to his index finger. “That’ll give me your blood oxygen reading. Now just stay still for me.” His blood pressure proved to be a trifle on the low side. Blood oxygen level was also low.

“So, any vomiting recently?”

“No.” Something about what the man said made Greg pause.

“Diarrhea?” Mycroft murmured something. “Pardon? How many episodes?” “Please, Mr Lestrade…” Mycroft sounded distressed, embarrassed.

“Mr Holmes, diarrhea can severely dehydrate you enough to drop your blood pressure significantly. That could be the cause of your collapse. Now, how many episodes?”

“Six. Since I awoke this morning.”

“When did it start?”

“Yesterday, evening. I thought it was something I ate.”

“Okay, it’s possible, but it’s also possible it’s a virus, a tummy bug. So, quite apart from the fact that you should not be here because you might be spreading infection, you are dehydrated enough to pass out. You might have struck your head as you went down. You were bloody lucky you didn’t give yourself a concussion.” 

“Do you talk to all your patients like this?”

“No, as a matter of fact. I’m being gentle on you. Not all of them are eaten up with worry for a little brother.” Martha Hudson chose that moment to poke her head through the door. “Who is fine, by the way. Yes, Martha?”

“Mr Lestrade? You asked me to come in.” “Ah, yes. Would you get me a blood taking kit and an IV please? A liter of normal saline to start with.” He turned back to Mycroft and couldn’t help but note the man’s worry. “Hey, relax, you’re in good hands.” Greg smiled. There was no response. “Mycroft? It’s easily solvable. Probably a virus. A liter of saline in you and you’ll feel better, promise. We can give you more if necessary. We’ll do routine bloods, just to make sure. I recommend you stay the night and we’ll reassess in the morning. A stool sample might be a good idea as well...What?”

“Such a distasteful thing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a doctor. I deal with messy stuff every day.”

“I thought consultants had left all that behind.”

“I try to keep my hand in. Well, not literally,” he grinned, showing teeth.

“Hopefully not, Mr Lestrade.”

“Well, actually, I might just get the nurses to deal with that.” Greg’s grin widened for a moment, then he sobered. “How are you, really?”

“I am...less than my best, I must admit.” Mycroft passed a distracted hand through his hair, displacing the neatness.

“Nauseous?” 

“A little.” Greg reached for a cardboard emesis bowl, just in case, placing it within reach.

“Well, I think you’ll start to feel better when we get some fluids into you. I suggest you get undressed properly, and into bed. I’ll get Martha to get you a gown. You want a hand…?”

“I am not...not as able as I might be.” Greg helped the now-cooperative patient out of his bespoke suit, taking care to fold things properly, and was in process when Martha came back with supplies. She immediately joined in and between them, they got the man into a hospital gown and under the covers. Mycroft was trembling by the time they had finished.

Once Mycroft was in the gown, Greg covered his nethers with the sheet and blanket, and lifted the hem of the gown up to the man’s chest. “Just relax for me.” Warm hands explored Mycroft’s belly, pressing gently. “Tell me if there’s any pain,” he instructed. He eventually felt Mycroft wince and utter a soft grunt of discomfort. _Tender around the stomach,_ Greg noted. Once he finished his physical examination, Greg had the IV line into his patient’s arm quickly and efficiently and hooked up the saline, while Martha took the blood samples. 

“There, that ought to have you feeling better soon. I am going to give you an antiemetic, and possibly something to ease your diarrhea, and you are going to rest. Until you're checked out with your doctor, make sure you don't take ibuprofen or loperamide, they can both exacerbate heart conditions. Got that?”

“Heart conditions? You asked me twice if I knew I had one… Mr Lestrade...”

“Don’t worry about it, but you need to speak to your doctor, get yourself checked out when you’re over this. You hear me? You have a family history of heart conditions, and you cannot ignore that. Right, the nurses will take care of you from now on.”

“But I’m not on the right ward…And this is...you are not in Oesophago-Gastric medicine.”

“Doesn’t matter. Still a doctor, Mr Holmes. Being here on CCU for one night isn’t a disaster. We’ll transfer you tomorrow to a nice private room on the correct ward. You need to get yourself put to rights before you see your brother again.”

“Is he really alright?”

“Yes, he’s progressing well.” Greg paused. Mycroft’s eyes were a gorgeous shade of blue, Greg noticed. Pity he was a bullying bastard who threw his weight around. He paused, then gripped Holmes’ wrist in his fingers again. “This must have been a trying time for you, having to cope with your brother’s illness. Must have come as a shock so soon after...” Greg bit his tongue. It might not be appropriate to admit he knew that bit of personal information. Mycroft did not seem to have noticed, he was too concentrated on his own discomfort. Greg allowed his thumb to stroke the inside of Mycroft’s wrist as he turned it in his grip. He felt the shudder that ran through the man’s body, saw the pupils dilate slightly. “Hm, your heart rate is still up a little, but that’ll be your elevated temperature. Just try to relax.” 

“I do have my own doctor,” Mycroft insisted. _The man was intolerable._ Then the gentle stroke along the skin of his wrist meant he could not suppress the shudder that ran through him, the gentle touch setting of alarm bells in his head… _Does the man have no shame? Of course my heart rate is up, you stupid…_ Mycroft caught himself as the chocolate brown eyes fixed on his. He knew the man was doing this deliberately… _Obviously getting his own back_ …but they were very _nice_ eyes that gazed back. How long ago was it that someone had actually been concerned over his welfare? _That was Victor’s province._ Mycroft caught himself. _Caring? Pft!_ He did not allow himself to care. _Caring is not an advantage, it is about as far from being advantageous as it could possibly be._ The fingers pressed gently but firmly on the pulse point at his wrist, which was too distracting. He tried to tug his hand out from the insistent grasp but when Lestrade let him go, Mycroft was surprised at how the loss of contact made him feel. If anything, he felt slightly bereft. 

_I’m not lonely, Sherlock…._ The words echoed in his mind. He had been lying, of course. He had understood that Sherlock had known he was lying, but he was doing it to stop his brother worrying, because like it or not, Mycroft was under no illusions that Sherlock did worry about him. Some part of Mycroft regretted that this man’s care obviously wasn’t genuine. It would have been nice to be treated with such obvious compassion but Mycroft told himself that Lestrade was only doing this in an attempt to get on his good side...

“Get some rest and I’ll come check on you later, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“You’re under my care at least until you get moved. Now, I suggest you drink something too, if you can. We can get some rehydration salts and fluids into you via the drip but you should supplement that. Flush this through your system. Rest now. Don’t get up.” 

Martha handed him a button box and pointed to the blue button. “If you press that, one of my nurses will be along if there’s anything you need. That includes any trips to the bathroom. I don’t want you falling, understood?”

“Very well.”

“Right,” Greg said. “You rest now. When you’re feeling better, you book a follow up with your own doctor, in case your symptoms are masking another condition. Don’t forget.” Greg didn’t wait for an answer before letting himself out of the door. 

When he checked back later, after he had consumed a passable (but cheap) microwave meal in his flat, it was to find Mycroft asleep and to be told by one of the nurses that he was feeling much better. The man looked much younger in sleep, worry lines eased around his eyes. Greg called the ward on the floor below for a bed and planned the transfer of Mr Mycroft Holmes to a private room at the crack of dawn the following day. Then he tracked off to his own flat and much needed rest. He worried a little for the younger Holmes, but while elder brother was out of commission, John Watson could make use of the time. The last job for the night was to call Watson and tell him. 

**000000000000000000**

Sherlock continued to make a good recovery, visited, in Mycroft’s absence, more frequently by John Watson, and once the man was recovered, even less frequently by his busybody of a brother. Holmes had been noticeably absent for most of the that week. After that, Greg saw him twice more, each time casting a glance toward him as if hoping for something, although Greg was always careful to be busy with something else and to move rapidly in the opposite direction. At least he wasn't bothered by any more incidents or confrontations. For some reason, the man had decided to leave off the hostilities. For now, at least.

“Jen, my darling, how are you?” Greg met his daughter a couple of days later, watching fondly as she exited the taxi that dropped her off in front of the hospital. She was carrying her overnight bag and wearing her very neat interview suit, looking much older than her seventeen years. He met her with a bear hug and grabbed her bag from her. “Missed you both so much. You okay?”

“I’m fine, dad. How are you? You okay? You look tired.”

“Okay, I guess. Bit of bother at work, nothing I can’t handle. Working late. You ready to get to it?”

“Yeah, what are we doing?”

“Well, for the benefit of everyone concerned, you are a student doing work experience, and you are observing only. Okay? We’ll go dump your bag, and then we’ll sort your ID badge, and sort out some forms and then the day is ours.”

“I’d have liked to do some clinical training, but whatever, dad, it’s just good to be here. Thank you for doing this. I think being with mum would have driven me nuts. Tish is in her element, but it’s just not me.”

As they walked back across the atrium after dropping Jen’s bag off at Greg’s flat, Mycroft Holmes just had to choose that moment to hove into view.

“Oh, Christ, not now,” Greg muttered.

Jen looked at him and frowned. “What’s up, dad?”

“Oh, just my arch enemy.”

“Do people have arch enemies?”

“I seem to. Good morning, Mr Holmes, feeling better?”

“Ah, good morning, Mr Lestrade. Yes, thank you. I am much restored.” He looked expectantly at the young woman standing a little behind and to one side of the consultant. Mycroft was curious at the presence of an unfamiliar face.

“Ah, allow me to introduce Miss Jennifer Wyndham, work experience student. She’ll be with me today.”

“Ah, I see. Nice to meet you, Miss Wyndham.” He held out a hand and Jen took it in her small but deceptively strong fingers and shook it firmly. She had a pleasant smile in place, Greg noted. “Thinking about a career in medicine, I take it?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes. Following in the family footsteps, I suppose.”

“Not unusual. Well, I hope you spend a productive time here. Mr Lestrade, I’ll see you later.”

Greg watched him go. “Who was that, and why did you call me Wyndham?” Jen asked. “That was mum’s maiden name, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, and that was Mycroft Holmes. He’s on the hospital board, and he’s a pain in my ar…”

“Language, Dad. What would mum say?” She was grinning at him. “Well, whoever he is, he actually seemed nice.” 

“Nice? Your definition is a bit warped. I called you that so you don’t get favouritism. I thought you wouldn’t want to be associated with your old man, considering.”

“This your thing about nepotism again?”

“I don’t have a thing about nepotism.”

“Yes, you do. You have always taught us to make our way in the world on our own merits.” 

“Yes, and what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all, dad. Nothing at all, but you do have a thing about it, no matter what you say.”

Greg spent the morning showing his daughter the hospital’s facilities, introducing her to more people than she could possibly remember and teaching her about the services the hospital offered its patients. Greg then took her to lunch and then they did a tour of the wards in the afternoon. 

“Dinner this evening?” Greg asked as they were strolling back towards the apartment. 

“Of course, if you're paying. Where d’you have in mind?” 

“Angelo’s?”

“Perfect.” 

He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She grinned and cuddled in close. 

“God, it's not five minutes since I held you in my arms, you and your sister. Tiny things that you were.”

She smiled. “We've both grown up a bit since then. Look, Dad, I'm sorry it didn't work out between you and mum.” 

“Couldn't be helped, love. Sometimes that's the way of it. We just…drifted apart, I guess.”

“Are you lonely, dad?” 

“A bit, yeah, I suppose. Miss you guys a lot.” 

“Not found anyone else yet then?” 

“What? No, not yet. That's not really any of your business, you know.” 

She gave him another of those patient smiles, and squeezed his arm. “Can't I be concerned for my old man?” 

“Oi! Cheeky.” 

She laughed, a joyful sound in the darkness of the quadrangle. Greg did not notice whose attention her laughter drew as he held the door for her to enter the apartment bock. By the Atrium door, Mycroft watched them go, a frown on his face. 

They got back a little later than Greg had anticipated. Jen had enjoyed Angelo’s and the man himself had greeted Greg like an old friend. He greeted Jen even more effusively when he found out who she was. 

“Anything you like, on the house. This man,” he said, squeezing Greg's shoulder, “A hero. Your father is a goddamn hero. Saved my youngest last year.” 

“Angelo, I was just doing my job,” Greg protested. 

“Don't listen to him,” Angelo said with a grin, and clapped him on the back. “A hero, no more, no less. So, what’ll it be?”

When they had ordered and Angelo had gone, Jen looked at her father seriously. 

“Dad, is it always like this?” she asked. 

“Like what?”

“People being so grateful.” 

“Nope, not in the slightest. Some folks are rude, obnoxious. Depends if I've helped or not.”

“I can't imagine you not helping.”

Greg grinned. “Well, so far as Mr Holmes is concerned, I definitely do not help.”

“Then he's clearly not in his right mind,” she said staunchly. 

The following day, Greg took Jenny to see the operating theatres. 

“Sally, my favourite theatre sister, how are you this morning?”

“I'm fine, Greg. How are you and what are you after?” Greg laughed and introduced her to Jenny. “Oh, my God, this is your daughter?” The two women shook hands. “Good to meet you. Welcome to the madhouse,” she said. “Your dad was telling me a while ago, you’re interested in a career in medicine?” 

“Yes, I am. Not sure he wants me to though. He keeps warning me how bad it can get.” 

Sally laughed. “Of course, it’s a good sign. He’s obviously feeling threatened by your brilliance already.” 

“Don’t give her ideas, Sal,” Greg retorted, failing to keep a smile off his face. “She's only here for work experience.”

“Okay then, want a tour around one of the theatres?” 

“Could I?” 

“Sure. This one isn’t being used, and hasn't been prepped yet. Let me show you round.” 

“Mr Lestrade?” Greg turned to see Phil Anderson approaching. “Might I have a word?” 

“It's okay, go,” Sally said. “I'll take Jen round here while you chat.” Greg watched her lead his daughter away then turned back as Phil drew level. 

“Phil, what gives?” 

“Just thought you should know, Holmes is asking for you.”

“Elder or younger?” Greg asked. 

“The elder,” Phil replied, “and from the look on his face it isn't good.”

Greg sighed and nodded. “Thanks, Phil. I'll keep my eyes open.” 

“He’s actually acting a bit weird.”

“Weird?” 

“Asking me if I knew who the girl was who was with you? Do you even have a girl with you?”

“Um...that would be Jen.” “Oh? You...er...you found someone new, then?”

“God, no. She’s my daughter. Doing work experience for school. I got her in for a couple of days to see what it was like. She wants to study medicine.”

“Oh, that’s great. You...don’t think he’s got the wrong idea, do you?”

“Wrong idea?” Greg was puzzled. “What do you mean?” but Phil didn’t get the chance to answer as a familiar figure entered the theatre, frosty demeanour in place. 

“Mr Holmes,” Greg said, his eyes focusing on a point over Phil’s shoulder. “Good morning. What can I do for you?” 

Phil whirled and nodded to the man. “Mr Holmes.” He was completely ignored. With a worried glance at Greg, Phil took the hint and backed to the door and then fled while he had the chance. 

“I trust you and your.. _.companion_ had a good night out?” Holmes asked accusingly.

“Er...yes we did, thank you. Was there something…?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I have to say I consider your behaviour highly inappropriate. I shall be having words with the board this time. Not even you can escape the rules you are so fond of citing.” 

Greg frowned, nonplussed. “I’m sorry, Mr Holmes…I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I’m not sure to what you’re referring.” 

“Intolerable. Please do not act the innocent with me, Mr Lestrade. Your contacts will not be able to save you from this. This time you have grossly overstepped the boundaries of decency.”

 _My expression must be priceless,_ Greg thought. _I really honestly have no idea what he’s ranting about now…_

“Look, I’m sorry, Mr Holmes, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

At that moment, Sally returned with Jen and both women paused when they sensed the tension in the room. Mycroft glared at Jen and then stalked to the door. 

“I shall be in touch, Mr Lestrade.” Greg watched the man leave.

“What was that all about?” Sally asked. “The Iceman gunning for you?”

“I have no idea,” Greg replied. “No idea at all.”

“Come on, you can meet one of my patients if you like. Heart transplant.”

Greg lead the way up to the ward and knocked on the door, leaving Jen in the corridor while he went to seek permission from Sherlock. 

“Oh, hello. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hello, Sherlock. How are you today?”

“Actually not too bad at all. Good to see you're looking better too. What can I do for you? By your demeanour I would guess you are going to ask me for something.”

“I was just wanting to know if you minded my discussing your case with a work experience student?”

“No, not at all…” 

Greg leaned out the door and beckoned. Jen entered and smiled at the patient, her eyes taking in the various monitors and equipment around, the dressings and tubes and chest drains that the man in the bed still had attached to his body. 

There was a lively curiosity there, Sherlock noted, much like her father. It was obvious from the facial features whose daughter she was. 

“Hello,” Sherlock said, giving her a charming smile. 

“Hello, Mr…” 

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock came to me last year with a damaged heart, and was put on the register for transplant,” Greg explained. 

“I very nearly didn’t make it, did I, Mr Lestrade?”

“Oh?” Jen glanced at her father. “The patient’s condition has to be such that he’s going to have a good chance of surviving the procedure,” Greg explained, and went on to outline the circumstances of Sherlock’s case. “He was lucky a donor heart came available when it did.”

“Is it inappropriate to offer myself up for examination?” Sherlock invited, with a smile.

“Well… strictly, she’s observing only.”

“Oh, come on, Lestrade. If she proves to be anything like her father, she’ll be bloody brilliant.”

“How did you…?”

“It’s obvious, from the facial features if not from the fatherly pride on your face. Come on, Miss Lestrade, I am sure your father can instruct you in how to use a stethoscope.”

“Could I?” Jen looked at her father for permission. He shook his head with a grin and handed over his stethoscope. 

“If Mr Holmes agrees,” Greg replied. “So, when you examine someone,” he said, naturally slipping into teaching mode, “you use your eyes first. Look at what you can see, before you even get close…”

Naturally the door opened on them as Jen was leaning in, listening to the patient’s new heart beating steadily. She was, like Greg, wearing a disposable apron, gloves and a mask, looking very attentive to what he was saying.

“And he will be on immunosuppressants for the rest of his life, just to make sure his body does not reject the donor heart…” Greg was saying. “Hence the necessity for all our protective clothing.” He turned on hearing the door open and his own heart sank. Mycroft Holmes was standing there, taking the scene in with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Brother dear, do come in.” Sherlock smiled at Jen as she stood back, glancing worriedly at her father’s guarded expression as she handed his stethoscope back.

“I see you are convalescing well, brother.” Holmes’ expression was positively frosty.

“And at the same time,” Sherlock said brightly, “taking the opportunity to further the cause of education, as you can see.” 

“Yes, well, I am sorry to break up your little soiree, but there are things I wish to discuss. If you wouldn’t mind.” Mycroft barely glanced at Greg, busying himself cleaning his hands and fitting a mask over his face.

“Not at all,” Greg said. “Thank you, Sherlock. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Greg lead his daughter from the room.

“On no account are you to make his life a misery, Mycroft. You've already done enough of that. I offered to allow the girl to listen to my heart.”

“She’s not supposed to do more than observe, Sherlock,” Mycroft retorted angrily. 

“Pft. She wasn’t doing any harm. Listening to my heart, nothing more, and supervised all the time. Don’t be such a pedantic prat.”

“Sherlock… She’s a minor and under our care while she’s here…Besides, that man...” Mycroft shuddered. “He’s overstepped the bounds this time. There is no way that he can escape his own beloved rules!”

“Why? What’s he done?”

“He took that girl to dinner last night, apparently. I saw them both heading for his apartment, after work, blatant as you please. He wasn’t even being discreet about it. I would say that is highly inappropriate behaviour given that she is less than half his age...”

“Doubtless they slept together too…” Sherlock said, but then he began to laugh, despite wincing as he did so. He was pleased to note it hurt a lot less that it would have done a week ago. His brother’s confusion was almost worth it. “Well, a father has every right to take his daughter to dinner. I suspect he gave her the spare room in his new flat too.” Sherlock said, gleefully watching the comprehension dawn on his brother’s face. “Oh, my God, Mycroft, please don’t tell me you didn’t realise? And here I thought you were the smarter one. She’s Greg Lestrade’s daughter.”

“His what?”

“His daughter.” 

“His daughter…” Mycroft shut his eyes in quiet despair. He could not help but recall his outburst that morning. “But...he didn’t say…He introduced her with a completely different surname...”

“Yes, well, perhaps he didn’t want you to know who she was.”

“What did he think I might do? Toss her out on her ear?”

“That was not his motivation. Lestrade is not one for nepotism. He got to where he is on his own merits and he obviously wants the same for her. He feels very strongly about it.”

“Yes, but...She’s not even in medical college yet.”

“And he doesn’t want anyone to show her favouritism. But you wouldn’t be guilty of that, would you, brother? You’re hardly going to be favourable toward Lestrade in any way, now are you? I very much doubt that you would show any favouritism to his family.” 

“You won’t get into trouble, will you, dad? I mean, that man did give us a bit of a look.”

“Doubtful. He looks like that at everybody. I really have no idea what bee he has in his bonnet right now.”

“Pity, really. He looks like he should be nice.” 

“What?”

“Well, as though he could be very nice, but he’s not happy, is he?”

Greg wondered at her shrewdness. “Well, he’s grieving, that’s probably why. He lost someone close a couple of years ago, and he’s been worried about his brother too. Grieving people are sometimes not able to be nice, and worry eats you up as well. He’s defensive, because he’s hurting.”

“Pity. He seemed nice earlier.”

“Yeah, well...he’s not my favourite person, that’s for sure, but losing someone you love, it’s very hard. I know I’m not around every day for you and Tish, but you can still phone me and share good news or we can still get together for lunch or a party. When someone dies, that’s all gone. No more opportunities.”

Jen smiled. “You should talk to him, dad. You’re good at helping people.”

Greg gave her a hug around her shoulders as they walked. “Sometimes, people won’t let you help them, but it’s always worth a try I suppose.” 

“That’s what you’re always telling us, though, isn’t it? You have to help the whole person, including everyone around them? Well, you’ve helped Sherlock, so maybe you’ve helped his brother too? Help one, help the other.”

“You’re a clever girl.”

She smiled brightly at him. “I have a good teacher.”


	5. Light Blue Touch Paper...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And retire to a safe distance... Greg attempts to rescue Mycroft from himself, and Mycroft learns something quite startling.

A week after he had rescued Mycroft, on the day before Sherlock was due to be discharged Greg went to see the younger Holmes to find him in an agitated state. 

“This is intolerable!”

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“My brother wants me released into his care. I do not want this but he’s insistent or he says he’ll inform our parents.”

“Inform your parents of what exactly?”

“He’ll out me to them…”

“Oh, I see. They don’t know?” 

“Well, they know about Mycroft but not about me.”

“Mycroft? What…?”

“He’s gay. I’m...bi, but I love John. Mummy was so upset when Mycroft told her he was gay. She was lamenting about not having grandchildren for weeks. God knows what’ll happen if she finds out about me too…”

“Not having grandchildren? You can adopt nowadays, and with your brother’s contacts and degree of pull, that shouldn’t be too hard. So what do _you_ want?”

“John has offered to move in with me, to care for me at my flat. I’d prefer it, frankly.”

“You want me to speak to your brother?”

“I don’t want you to lose your job.”

“It won't come to that. Besides he's already tried, and failed.”

“My brother is vindictive and uncaring. If someone thwarts his plans he retaliates, nastily.”

“And I should be afraid of your brother? Jesus, Sherlock, I’m in my mid-fifties, I am not a little kid any more. So far he's done some petty stuff, that's all. Flexing his muscles, showing me he's no more than a rather insecure bully.”

“He’s a very dangerous man, the most dangerous man you’re ever likely to meet. The power he wields, the forces he can muster…”

“What on earth…? You make him sound like an evil supervillain. Look, despite the posturing, he’s not an ogre, Sherlock. He's tried to scare me. That's all. Your brother is worried about you, you know. He’s still hurting over his loss and whatever you might feel, he’s still human...”

“Nice of you to defend me, Mr Lestrade. Sherlock? Good day to you.”

Sherlock clammed up and sank into the bed. Greg turned and surveyed the elder Holmes with concern. “Mr Holmes,” he said gently. “Good afternoon.”

“I came to see if Sherlock could be discharged today. I have everything set up at home ready to care for him. 24 hour nursing staff, a proper bed, all it would take is your signature.”

Greg checked his watch. “No, sorry.”

“No?” Both men spoke at once.

“Not until I find out what my patient’s wishes are, and also to give him a final exam and sign his discharge form. I can’t manage that until this afternoon, earliest. I have a meeting in…” Greg checked his watch, “less than ten minutes, I’m afraid. It’ll have to wait until later.” He started toward the door. 

“As I have already stated, his wishes don’t come into this…” 

“I’m sorry?” Greg rounded on him. “What did you say?” Mycroft paused, seeing the look on the consultant’s face. Incredulity, the beginnings of outrage. Greg’s expression had hardened into anger. 

“Need I remind you that my brother is hardly able to care for himself at home. He cannot be discharged unless it is into the care of a responsible adult, ergo, myself. I am Sherlock’s next of kin and his legal representative.”

“Actually, you’re not.” Sherlock avoided his brother’s eyes and Greg folded his arms and frowned at the man. The look of utter incredulity on Mycroft’s face would have been comical had Mycroft not looked so shocked. “I changed it this morning,” Sherlock admitted, glowering. “Legally.”

“What? Y.y.you can’t…” Mycroft had begun to stutter. 

“I think you’ll find I have done. I _am_ in my right mind, _Brother dear,_ ” Sherlock growled. “Attested by a psychiatrist. I am no longer an addict, I’ve been clear of that for six years, and I am allowed to make my own decisions.”

“Sherlock, that’s enough! I shall inform mummy and father of this. You have really crossed the line this time.”

“Sod off, Mycroft. I shall inform them that you have been using your influence to make sure I was considered for transplant in the first place.”

“That is a barefaced lie, Sherlock, but you think they wouldn’t be happy about that, even so? You owe me your life, Sherlock. You are a junky! And junkies are not considered good prospects for transplant. You would have been refused! Refused, you hear me? Besides, all I did was to change the date of your rehab...”

“All you did? That’s enough, isn’t it? And you repeatedly refuse to acknowledge that John is my partner, nor do you acknowledge what I want, as a responsible adult…”

“Because you are not a responsible adult, Sherlock. You act like a child. You are happy to try to kill yourself…” Greg spread his hands wide, unconsciously stepping between the two men, intent on stopping their argument, but Sherlock didn't give him the chance to speak. 

“That was before I met John. Good God, we are getting married, Mycroft. Married! You hear me?” Mycroft scoffed at this and opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock overrode him. “John is moving in with me so he can look after me, I am _not_ going home with you. Not now, not ever. Tell mummy and father if you want to, I have had enough!” Sherlock rolled over and faced the wall, covering himself up and ignoring both men. 

“Alright, gentlemen, enough is enough. Sherlock…”

“Sherlock? Sherlock, I did it for you,” Mycroft insisted. “Losing Victor broke my heart, but your loss would shatter it completely.” 

Sherlock rounded on him, rolling over and glaring at him. “What on earth am I supposed to do with that?” he snapped.

Mycroft rounded on Greg, taking his anger and frustration out on the next nearest person in the room. “I suppose this was your idea! This time I really shall have your job for this! You are guilty of gross misconduct! Very well, you leave me no choice…” Mycroft turned tail and swept out of the room. Greg silently watched him go. Silence fell. Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

“You okay there?” Greg asked the man still curled up on the bed.

“M’fine…” came the muffled reply. “He’s a dick….”

“Yeah, I know but he’s still your brother.”

“He’s still a dick.”

“Pity he’s an attractive dick. Quite a force to be reckoned with when he’s angry.” “Ugh, Lestrade, please. Your woeful lack of taste is beyond comprehension.”

Greg grinned. “Seriously, Sherlock, are you sure asking John to care for you is the best idea? I mean, 24 hour nursing, a good bed, you are passing up an extraordinary chance at good medical aftercare…”

“I am not having Mycroft control my wellbeing, not ever. If I allow him to take me home, I will probably never see John again...”

“Your brother obviously cares for you though.”

“Pft. Cares? Controls, you mean,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Yeah, well, that’s brothers for you. He does want the best though, even if he’s shit at saying it properly.” Sherlock huffed, then frowned at him.

“Why are you defending him? He treats you like dirt, and you’re nice to him? You keep on defending him. Why?”

“Because...my daughter saw through him. She’s a shrewd judge of people and she said he should be a nice person. She’s right. You and I both know Mycroft is dealing with a lot of personal stuff right now, but underneath there is a good person who has lost his way. He lost someone he loved and now someone else he loves is sick, life threateningly so, and he faced the real prospect of losing you too, you know? He knows he might also have something wrong with him as well and it’s probably too much to handle. He’s terrified of losing you, you know? It’s obvious. God knows, he’s not thinking about his own health right now. Persuading him to get himself checked up, it’s like pushing a pea up a hill with your nose.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, you’d best go to your meeting.”

“Haven’t got one. I was deflecting, giving you a bit of space.”

Sherlock’s smile was thoughtful. “You lied to my brother. How bold of you.”

“Not really. I just don’t care what he thinks anymore. Despite what he's going through, he’s a stubborn idiot, and I’ve about had enough of him. I can sympathise but I’m having a hard time dealing with him.”

“You could try telling him my idea had nothing to do with you. I wanted my situation sorted out once and for all. It was John’s idea, if anything. I’ve been jumping through legal hoops for the last month to break Mycroft’s hold, but obviously I couldn’t give him a whiff that was what I was doing. Of course, my transplant intruded on my plans a little and I had to wait to complete everything.”

“Sorry saving your life got in the way,” Greg said dryly. 

“Oh, that’s alright. No harm done,” Sherlock said with a grin. “Go see if he’ll listen to you. He needs a friend, Greg, somewhat desperately.”

“He won’t listen, Sherlock. He keeps everyone at arms length. However, if you really want me to,” Greg sighed gustily, “Go on then, I’ll give it a go.”

**00000000000000**

Greg exited the lift in time to see Mycroft Holmes striding across the hospital atrium, obviously intent on heading for the administrative wing. He was waylaid by someone on the way and paused to listen, barely concealing his annoyance. Greg jogged a little to catch up and headed him off as the other man thanked Mycroft and left. 

“Mr Holmes.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Greg observed the angry glare but the rigidly maintained veneer of civility was in place because they were in public. 

“I have something to say to you though. I’m sorry, but it wasn’t me who gave Sherlock that idea. He wanted me to tell you that. Didn’t want you to blame me for something that wasn’t my fau...”

“You seem to have interfered in every other way,” Mycroft snapped back, voice low but vicious.

“Me? I interfered? That’s rich coming from you. Do you know what your little stunts did, Mr Holmes? Interrupted my New Year with my family. Dragged me out and subjected me to an unnecessary shakedown by the police, delayed me from attending a patient, only to find there was no patient. You managed to fuck over my phone and my bank. I’ve lived on cheap crap for a week because I had nothing in my wallet.”

“Surely minor inconveniences.” Mycroft smiled nastily. “However, I am now assured that you are under no illusions that I am quite capable of escalating the situation, should I feel it necessary! Now, I'm sure we both know that this is neither the time nor the place for this...discussion.”

“Oh, I think it’s the perfect place,” Greg snapped. “I’m a surgeon, Mycroft. My patients rely upon me to accomplish their surgeries correctly and on time. Those _minor inconveniences,_ as you call them, were stressful as Hell, and I do not need any more stress in my life.”

“Don't give me that. You're a surgeon. People like you thrive on stress,” Mycroft scoffed. 

“And that just shows up how much you don’t understand. I thrive on the challenge, on the skill and the strategy, on solving the puzzles and making positive changes to people's lives. That shit you pulled on New Years triggered a bloody awful migraine and I’ve not had one of those in the last six months. Now I’m not sleeping well, I’m eating crap because I’ve got no access to my bank account until my new cards arrive, and frankly, I am not in a fit state to operate, thanks to you. What the fuck warrants this kind of behaviour? I’ve saved your brother’s life and this is the thanks I get? Just because I refused to capitulate to the opinion of someone with no medical experience concerning the care of one of my patients? Had the boot been on the other foot, what would you have done?”

“You refused to hand over his care to another doctor, which you could have done perfectly easily, but you deliberately defied my direct orders concerning his care and, quite honestly, you obviously support his alliance with DI Watson. I have reviewed the cctv footage. I am not stupid, Mr Lestrade.”

“That’s a matter of opinion, Mr Holmes. Look, they love each other, and keeping them apart will not change that. You are compromising your brother’s recovery by doing so. Do you _really_ want that? What on earth do you have against John Watson anyway?”

“He's a detective inspector with the Metropolitan police. He's in a dangerous job, he drinks too much, and he is _not_ the kind of person I want around Sherlock. He’ll hardly ever be there, he’ll be working cases for days, coming home late...Coming home drunk…” Mycroft’s expression turned to one of horror. “No, I would rather that did not happen...”

“Look, Mycroft, Sherlock is an adult. He can make his own choices…”

“His own choices? He was an irresponsible teenager with a drug problem and I have not witnessed much change. He would have self destructed had I not taken matters in hand. It is not ethical of you to expect me to change my standpoint on that…”

“Did you really change his records? Because if you did…” Greg glared at him. “You have no leg to stand on by calling me unethical. Look, Mycroft, you have money, position and power, I understand that, and not to use it to help your own family...I can understand why you did that, but all I’m asking is please give him a chance at happiness, while he’s still here. He’s got ten more years, average. I’d like to think longer but it’s not assured. If anything it’s likely John will be the one who suffers loss, but he’s willing to take Sherlock on for as long as they have. Don’t deny them that just because you don’t want Sherlock to go through what you’re going through.”

“You know nothing about me!” Mycroft snarled, for the first time drawing a few stares from people nearby. “Do NOT presume…” 

A shrill scream cut through his words and both men looked toward the doors, the direction the noise had come from. A knot of people at the door parted revealing a young man standing there, covered in blood. Greg was running before he knew he’d reacted. He caught the man just as his legs gave out and lowered him to the floor. 

“I.I.I was just trying to tell him we have no A&E here…” a young receptionist was stuttering, clearly shocked. 

Greg peeled the man’s coat back to reveal a blood soaked shirt and trousers. He looked back toward the main desk and bellowed “Code Red!” in as loud a voice as he could muster. Security had closed in and he looked at... _Terry, that was his name?_ “Terry, call the police, this lad has been stabbed. Get a couple of your guys on the door, check if his assailant is still around. Make sure this place is safe...” He was gratified to see Terry nod and get on his radio, giving orders, confirming the code red and getting things moving. Greg pressed his fingers to the lad’s throat seeking a pulse. There was one, albeit faint. 

“Surely we need to call an ambulance…” Mycroft was suddenly by his side. 

“By the time one gets here, he’ll be dead, Myc.” Greg ripped the lad’s tee shirt open to get access to his injuries. One deep laceration to his shoulder but not penetrative, a wider slash across his chest, one deeper wound to his belly, into the soft tissue. Defensive injuries on his hands…

“Defensive injuries?”

Greg wasn’t aware he had been speaking out loud. “On his hands. He was the one who was attacked.”

“But we have no A&E.”

“No, but we have crash teams and operating theatres, Mycroft. And I spent a lot of years in A&E as a trauma surgeon. It’s this lad’s lucky day…” he grabbed at the supplies one of the nurses had hurried over, wadding a pad of bandage and gauze into a dressing. He pressed it over the wound to the lad’s shoulder and grabbed Mycroft’s hand. “Keep the pressure on there, Nurse,” he said curtly.

“Nurse?” Mycroft uttered, incredulous. 

Greg glared at him. “I’m making do.” 

Mycroft did as he was told and watched as Greg attempted to get a response from his patient, but nothing was forthcoming. He tipped the lad’s head back, opening his airway, then uncoiled his stethoscope from his pocket and fitted it to his ears, listening to the boy's chest with a concerned frown.

“He's breathing but barely. You, Nurse…Barker? Get some oxygen down here now,” he ordered and one of the dozen or so nurses who had materialised in the general area jumped to obey. He fixed his eyes on another doctor who had approached. “Dan, find me an intubation kit?” Greg focused on a young mousey woman in a white tunic next to him. “You, yes, you… What's your name?” 

“Molly Hooper, Mr Lestrade.”

“Nurse? ” 

“Physio, but I've done my bachelors in nursing.”

“Good enough. Get his legs elevated for me, okay? We need a blanket here..." Someone was already hurrying over with one, and Greg picked on someone else in a nurse's uniform nearby. "Jan, we need to maintain his airway and I need you to hold his head still for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes of course.” 

Someone pressed the necessary supplies into Greg's hands and he set about inserting the intubation tube to make sure the young man could carry on breathing without obstruction. 

Mycroft knelt on the carpet by the young man's head, keeping steady pressure on the wound in his shoulder. He watched in a detached manner as the work went on around him to try to save the boy’s life. All the resources of one of the best hospitals in the country devoted to save one—probably working class—boy’s life, someone probably far removed from affording the care they offered here. Greg was working on him in as dedicated a way as if he was the most important person in the world. Another nurse was working to cut their patient’s clothes off, exposing more of the pale skin to view, and Greg checked for any more injuries while another nurse tried and failed to find a vein in his arm to put the cannula in. 

“His veins are compromised, I can’t get a line in.”

“Give one here, 22 gauge,” Greg ordered and took the fresh pack from her, ripping it open quickly. 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, seeing Greg turn the boy’s face away. 

“Securing a venous line so we can get bloods into him. The veins in his extremities are compromised by the blood loss, they've shrunk as his body draws more blood to the major organs in an effort to keep them going. That's why you elevate his legs, bring the blood volume back to his body. Blood pressure is dangerously low.”

“But his neck?” 

“Going for the jugular, it's the largest vein he has and its nearest the surface. Done it before, Mycroft. It's our best option.” 

Mycroft watched the confident efficiency with which Greg inserted the line, and secured it, then handed over to the nurse, who got the fluid bag hooked up. By then Security had marshalled the busy atrium and moved extraneous people away, giving the rescuers space to work, clearing the doors and setting guards in place. The crash cart arrived, together with a trolley, and Greg coordinated the people around him to carefully lift the young man onto the trolley. The crash team hooked him up to blood pressure and heart monitoring equipment, and Greg stood back, issuing orders. A nurse took over from Mycroft and Greg turned to him. 

“Can you make use of your considerable powers of persuasion and make sure there's a theatre free for us? Tell ‘em it's an emergency, and ask if Sally Donovan is around. We need a CT scan but I want to stabilise him first.” 

Mycroft nodded and pulled out his phone as they rushed the patient to the lifts. 

“Theatre three is being prepped as we speak,” Mycroft said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “I've diverted Lady Hailsham’s hemorrhoid operation so I am afraid she won't be pleased. I’ll explain to her. You probably owe me a stiff drink after this.”

“After this, I'll probably need a week off and I've got a very good unopened bottle of single malt waiting for me. If you’re a good boy, you can join me. Right, Folks, floor three. We ready? Right then…” the lift pinged and the trolley was already moving as the doors opened. 

The blade had missed vital organs, but it was still touch and go on the table. The penetrative wound to the man’s abdomen had done the worst. Greg located the major wounds and the scan confirmed his findings. There was a dangerous bleed into the abdomen, which he had suspected might be the case. The boy's blood pressure was still at a precarious level and Greg spent anxious minutes waiting for even a tiny change. He handed over to the anesthesiologist immediately on arrival and then disappeared briefly to change into scrubs and the last Mycroft saw of him was the doors shutting on the operating suite. He was sidelined as surgical priorities took over from administrative and he was left adrift in the corridor, pensively watching the doors swing shut on the frenetic activity. 

He took a breath, as an uneasy silence settled around him. Anger still coursed through him from their very public confrontation, but underneath it, a grudging respect, and… something he struggled at first to identify. When he identified it, he blinked, somewhat startled to recognise the first stirrings of admiration. _Of course_ , he thought, _the man is physically attractive._ You would have to be dead not to see that, but that was part of what was wrong. Mycroft had no desire to be attracted to someone he was doing his best to hate. Beyond that, though, there was something compelling about Lestrade’s ability to take control of a situation, to direct those around him. He was a natural leader, able to manage the people around him swiftly and successfully. His compassion…. He worked on that boy without thought for who he was, or where he came from. He gave his best, and nothing else was acceptable. 

With nothing else to hold him there, Mycroft turned on his heel and left the area. He was superfluous, but his job was far from over. He would need to intercept the police, explain the situation, talk to security. No rest for the wicked, he considered, and the irony was not lost on him. 

00000000000000

“Okay, Folks, bloody good job. Thank you.” Greg stood back and stretched, unkinking his vertebrae. “Would you close, please, Rayne?”

“Sure, boss,” she said, leaning in to finish suturing the stomach wound. Greg was sure he'd repaired all the internal damage but the young man would need monitoring in ICU to make sure. His name was Wiggins, Bill Wiggins, and his college ID said he was 17, and hailed from Hackney. His clothes hadn’t been those of someone living on the streets, he was clean and dressed serviceably. He hadn’t been mugged either, his wallet and keys were still in his pockets. Greg left his team to finish up and went to change, knowing he would have to deal with the police and possibly Mycroft again before he could get back to his flat to shower and change. He changed into clean scrubs, realising his suit trousers were hopelessly covered in the lad’s blood and he could not go home in them. Heading down to the atrium again, he wondered at the last couple of hours. Disturbingly, he realised he had relished it. _You’re not haunted by trauma care, Mr Lestrade,_ he thought. _You miss it._

Greg knew he didn’t regret his specialisation, but he missed the almost obscene rush that trauma care gave him. It seemed wrong to relish the challenge when someone’s life was hanging in the balance but being able to not only save that life but put the body back together, there was no better feeling. He also knew there was no worse feeling when it all went wrong, and that was what had ultimately driven him to change his specialisation, but at least this time it had gone successfully. Wiggins was still with them, although the next forty eight hours would be critical. 

He spent the next hour or so dealing with the police, answering their questions and giving his statement. Half way through, a familiar face hove into view.

“John?”

“Greg. Got a call about a suspected murder. What’s going on? Don't tell you finally snapped and tried to murder Mycroft?” 

“Yeah, well, it's a fair cop. Slap the cuffs on and let's go,” Greg said, dramatically. 

“So, seriously, what the hell just happened?” John asked, giving him an appraising look. 

“I just had the victim of a stabbing on my operating table for the last three hours, that's what,” Greg said, stifling a tired yawn. “He’s alive, stable, but we’ll have to see how the next forty eight hours pans out. He’s in ICU, but you probably won’t get anything out of him before tomorrow. Sorry.”

“You were there when he came in?”

“Yeah, Mycroft and I were...discussing things. Near the front desk. We heard a scream, turned to see the lad standing there, blood all over.”

“Was he the one who screamed?” 

“No, that was our receptionist, that was what alerted us that something was happening. She said she'd tried to tell him we didn't have an A&E, then she saw he was covered in more blood that she’d first noticed. He was wearing a coat that covered most of the injuries.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not a word to me, collapsed in my arms unconscious and we went from there. Stab wounds to left shoulder, slash across his chest and a deeper injury into his abdomen. Defensive injuries on his hands. I think we found all the damage, but it’s hard to know for sure. There was a major bleed into his abdomen and I had to perform a laparotomy to…”

“English please?” John said, gently exasperated.

Greg smiled. “Sorry, an incision to the abdominal wall to explore the extent of the damage. He was lucky the blade went in where it did, midpoint of one side.”

“Why? Sorry, my knowledge of anatomy beyond where our major organs are is shit.”

“There’s a major artery runs central through your abdominal area, branches off to each leg. Catch that and you’d be dead very quickly. Higher and you can rupture the liver or spleen.”

“So this was, what, random? A fight?”

“Would have thought someone intent on killing would probably have gone for the chest or neck. I dunno, never wanted to kill anyone with a knife before. I’m a surgeon, not a murderer. He was in shock, though. Blood volume had dropped significantly, somewhere close to twenty percent. He’d had chance to bleed internally and externally to the point of unconsciousness.”

“But he’ll survive?”

“I’m reasonably sure he’ll be okay if he gets through tonight with no problems, but honestly, time will tell. If he makes it through the night without any incidents, his odds will improve greatly. We won’t know more until he wakes though. So, do we know what happened?”

“I’ve got to review the hospital cctv footage covering the street outside, but it looks like he must have walked a fair way. I’ve got SOCOs out there following the blood trail, see if we can locate the actual scene where it happened. Then we can see if cctv covered the area. Nobody has come forward or reported anything so we’ll have to see if forensics can deal.”

“There’s no way he could have walked too far, not with those injuries,” Greg speculated. “Blood volume was dangerously low by the time he reached us. Across the street, maybe? No further I would have said.”

“We’ll see. If I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

“Have you located his family?”

“Yes, we have. Lives with his parents in Hackney.”

“Are they coming here?”

“I believe Mum is on her way. We tracked her down to her sister’s in Epping. Dad’s a long distance lorry driver, he’s in Edinburgh at the moment. Why?”

“Well, we’re not NHS, and while he’s obviously not on the streets, I doubt they’re going to be able to afford the fees here. I just wanted them to know, they don’t have to worry about it. It’s not the lad’s fault he tipped up here.”

“What shall I tell them?”

“Just that they don’t have to worry. We’ll sort something out. Jesus, I’ll pay for it if necessary…”

“That won’t be necessary,” said a cool voice from behind them. John immediately stiffened as Mycroft Holmes entered the room. 

“Mycroft?” Greg looked at him, but the man’s expression gave nothing away.

“Mr Holmes,” John said, respectfully. “I gather you were involved in this.”

“I just finished giving my statement, Inspector. I was recruited as a rather impromptu nurse.” He turned to meet Greg’s eyes, but was speaking to John. “Tell his family, the lad can stay here for the duration of his treatment, the hospital will absorb the cost. They do not have to worry about it.” 

“Thank you, Mr Homes. That’s...very good of you.”

“The least we can do. As my colleague says, it wasn’t the lad’s fault he fell through our doors.” For Mycroft, it was worth it to see the look in the consultant’s eyes, a mix of relief, pride and... something else. Mycroft smiled, politely professional, and excused himself, citing an imminent meeting.

“What brought that on?” John asked, watching Mycroft disappear through the office door.

“No bloody idea, mate. That man has more layers than an onion. However, I think the Iceman might be thawing.”

John huffed. “Don’t count your chickens,” he said. 

“Yeah, don’t I bloody know it.”

**0000000000000000**

The following morning Greg called in on ICU but their patient had not shown any signs of regaining consciousness, although he had spent a comfortable night, with no problems. Greg realised he could not get away from signing Sherlock off to go home and headed up there afterward, only to find John Watson in the room with his patient when he got there. 

“Morning. How are things? John, nice to see you. Any news on our guest?”

“Guest?” Sherlock’s interest was peaked.

“Yeah, we had a stabbing victim stagger through our doors yesterday.”

“Damn, and I missed all the excitement,” Sherlock said, rather cheerfully. “What happened?”

“Blood trail stops outside in the road, we don’t know where he came from,” John admitted.

“Well, he cannot have walked far, as I said,” Greg added. “Not with those injuries.”

“That’s because he didn’t,” Sherlock said, smugly. 

“What?”

“He didn’t.” Sherlock looked from one to the other and sighed, pityingly. “Good Grief, what is it like in your funny little brains. Must be so peaceful.”

“Share, please, you arse. What do you know?” John growled.

“Check your cctv footage, John. He was dropped off by car, probably someone who was panicking, went for the nearest sign that said Hospital without checking if they had A&E or not. Someone who doesn’t know the area then. Is the victim local?”

“Hackney, lives with his parent’s.” 

“Hm, he met someone from out of town then. Someone with access to a vehicle. Maybe even a man. Possibly in a hotel within a short drive from here. Where did the blood trail end, you must have followed it?”

“Across the road, but it stopped short of anywhere.”

“So review the cctv footage for that area, doubtless you’ll see a vehicle stopping long enough to drop your victim off, probably into the road.” 

“You are brilliant,” John said wonderingly, leaning over and kissing Sherlock soundly. He excused himself to go call his team and get things moving. 

“So, you determined to foil your brother then?” Greg asked. 

“Yes I am. He hasn’t shown himself yet.”

“You know he offered to pay for the lad’s care?”

“What, really?”

“Well, I offered, because it’s obvious that the family won’t be able to afford it, but Mycroft said the hospital would absorb the cost for the duration of his stay.”

“Well, well. I gather you did catch up with him yesterday then?”

“In a manner of speaking. We had a fight in the atrium.”

“In public? I don’t see any bruising…”

“Not a fist fight, Sherlock. Your brother fights with words.”

“And occasionally a sword.”

Greg blinked. “Pardon?”

“I said…” 

“I heard you, but...really?”

“He’s was a championship swordsman when he was at University.”

“Fencing?”

“HEMA,” Sherlock explained. “Historical European Martial Arts. Longsword. He was very good.” 

“Somehow, entirely typical. I wonder where he is. I thought he’d be here this morning.”

“So did I. It’s unlike him to be late…”

At that moment Lestrade’s pager went off and he frowned down at it. “Looks like your discharge will have to wait anyway. Someone wants me urgently.” Martha Hudson was paging him? “Sorry, Sherlock, got to dash. I’ll be back later.”

“Martha?”

“Greg, that fool of a man…”

“Which one?”

“Mycroft Holmes, that’s who. He passed out on his way up here.”

“Again? Where is he this time?” 

“They put him on a trolley and brought him along here.”

The orderlies were just standing back from getting the trolley through the ward door as Greg and Martha reached the room.

“Don’t put him on the bed yet, we might have to move him,” Greg instructed. He was pleased to see they had already undone the man’s belt and tie. Martha went about getting his waistcoat and shirt undone as fast as she could. Greg meanwhile pinched the skin over his collarbone, and called his name. There was no response. 

“Did he hit his head on anything?” Greg asked as he went about making sure his patient could breathe, tipping Mycroft’s head back and pressing his fingers to the man’s throat feeling for a pulse. “Did you see him fall?”

“Apparently on the floor as he went down,” one of the orderlies said. “Collapsed as he exited the lift. Didn’t see it myself, sorry. Hit the side of his head rather hard though, according to the person who saw it.”

“Okay. Would you please ask the nurse on duty to page Mr Anderson for me, and get her to call Radiology, schedule me an emergency CT scan as soon as possible please?” The man nodded and left quickly. “Christ, two bloody emergency calls in as many days,” Greg muttured. “Radiology will start to wonder if we opened an A&E without telling them.” Martha nodded, busy placing electrodes on the patient’s chest ready to attach a heart monitor. Greg checked his patient’s skull for any injury and his roaming fingers quickly found the slight swelling on the left side above his ear. 

“Feels like he’s given himself a good whack there, but doesn’t feel like he’s fractured anything. Hopefully just concussion.” He watched as Martha fitted the blood pressure cuff and blood oxygen clip and he moved around her to check the heart monitor readings. They moved around each other efficiently, in a practiced dance. 

“Like old times,” she said with a smile. 

“Too right,” Greg agreed. “Okay, we need an IV line in, and another set of bloods, please, Sister. He’ll need an ecg too...”

Mycroft could not open his eyes. He was dry mouthed, so tired and very disorientated. He had no idea where he was. He drifted, the voices around him muffled and muted in his ears. 

“He’s coming round.”

“Mycroft, come on, mate, back you come…” Someone was annoyingly rubbing their knuckles along his breast bone, and it hurt. He grunted but that only encouraged the rubbing. “Come on, that’s it.”

“Will you… _stop_ …please…?”

“Open your eyes, that’s it…” Mycroft struggled and glared as hard as he might but it lacked strength. Gregory Lestrade was peering down at him, concern in those beautiful dark eyes. “There we are. Good to have you back. How are you feeling?” 

“None of...your concern.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find it is. Just look at me for a moment, please.” A bright light shone first in one eye, then the other. Mycroft flinched at the light, but Greg pried his eyelids up one at a time with a gentle thumb. “How many fingers am I holding up, Mr Holmes?”

“Four…” Mycroft said, squinting.

“Okay,” Greg murmured. “You passed out, Mycroft, hit your head as you fell, so you’re suffering a moderate concussion. CT scan is clear, even if you are seeing double, but you need to remain in bed, lie still, okay?” 

“What happened?”

“You passed out on us again, do you remember? Rattled your brains on the floor as you fell.”

“Oh…”

“It’s okay, you’re in hospital, and you’re safe. We’ve got you under obs,” he explained at Mycroft’s blank expression. “So, were you aware that you have arrhythmia, Mycroft?”

“What? No. Why?”

“It’s a probable cause of your blackouts. Fainting.”

“Blackouts?”

“Yes, blackouts. Did you go for a follow up with your doctor like I suggested?”

“No, I simply haven’t had the time…”

“Well, maybe you should have made time. Your heart suffers arrhythmia, Mycroft. It’s a slow or irregular beat. Simply put, the messages between heart and brain don’t match up. I’ve got the results of an ecg here, which backs up my diagnosis. I missed it before when you had that tummy bug because illness can mask the symptoms. A virus can cause an irregular heart beat, so that’s why I suggested a follow-up. I’d like to run some more tests tomorrow. There’s a possibility you may require a pacemaker.”

“A pacemaker?” The alarm in his patient’s voice was clear.

“Woah, steady, it’s okay. Take it easy.” Greg ran a hand soothingly along Mycroft’s arm. “It’s not as drastic as it sounds. There may be the option to look at drug therapy first.”

“I...what does that mean, exactly? My heart just...beats too slowly?”

“A slow or irregular beat can cause fainting. I’d like to order a tilt table test tomorrow, and another ecg, and a stress test, I think. We can get to the bottom of this for you, sort things out.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Of course I do, Mycroft. Good God, I wouldn’t be worth my salt as a consultant in cardio unless I did something.”

“Why?”

“Must be because I want to sycophantically suck up to one of the board members. Oh, come on, why do you think? Look, you’ve tried to scare me into doing your bidding and it hasn’t worked. You don’t have any hold over me, Mr Holmes. I’m not doing this because I’m scared of you or of losing my job. We both know that won’t happen. I am a cardiologist, moreover Head of Cardiology, in this hospital. Your brother is my patient, and I am not about to let his brother suffer when I can help. It’s pretty obvious there’s a family history of heart problems, but we’ll do our best to sort this for you. I’m going to order those tests for tomorrow, then we’ll see what our options are.”

“Options? You mean, a...a transplant?”

“God, no. Don’t start worrying about that yet. We need to find out exactly what’s wrong with you first.” Greg sat back, and smiled. “Give us a chance, Mycroft. We’ll do our very best for you.”

“Very well. If you insist.” He sounded tired.

“I do. I think it would be a good idea to keep you in for a few nights, just until we’ve done those tests and got the results.” Greg tried to smile reassuringly. “We can discuss all our options later, when we have more data. You should get some rest now. I’m pretty sure you’re not in immediate danger though.” 

“I… thank you, Mr Lestrade...Gregory. My brother...”

“Is fine, don’t worry. He’s cared for and there’s no need to worry about him. Now, I’ll leave you with Sister Hudson to get you settled.” He winced as his fingers cramped again and he flexed his fist, wanting to leave so he might get some relief. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Mycroft watched him go, wondering if the tight fist was anger or frustration, but he had seen the man wince. Martha was watching him and she smiled a little sadly. “He’s a brilliant doctor, you know?” she said gently. “You can trust him. You’re in very safe hands.”

“I...I was quite…harsh with him. I cannot understand why he is….well, sympathetic to me.”

“Because as well as being brilliant, Greg Lestrade is a good man. If you’re his patient, then you get the best of care. He’s concerned about all of you, not just your heart.”

“I am reliably informed I don’t have one. I am the Iceman, didn’t you know? At least, that’s what the rest of the Board call me behind my back.”

“Come on now, you need to rest. If you wish to talk to him, you’ll see Greg in the morning.”

“Why? I mean, he is the Head of Cardiology here. Does he not have a team to do this?”

“Oh yes, of course he has a team.”

“Then why is he not handing my case over to one of them?”

“Because, Greg is very hands on, you know. Besides, he likes you, unless I’m a poor judge.”

“I fear you must be. Like me? How on earth do you come to that conclusion? What I've been doing to him, he has every right to hate me.”

“Because he’s taking a personal interest. If he didn’t like you, then he would have assigned you to one of his team by now, who are all amazing too by the way, just not him. Yet no, you get the personal treatment.”

“Am I to be grateful for this personal touch?” Mycroft muttered sullenly.

“No, not at all. No matter what you might have done, Mr Lestrade is nothing if not professional. He never lets personal issues get in the way of medicine. That man would treat you well if you were his mortal enemy, but I don’t think you are.”

“And how do you reach that conclusion?”

“Because he smiles at you.”

“And that is your sole reason?”

“Yes, it is. Look, Mr Holmes, Greg Lestrade is a fine man, a brilliant surgeon and a good friend. When I said you could be his worst enemy and he’d still treat you well, I know that for a fact.”

“I am sure you are now going to give me evidence for your conclusion?”

Martha Hudson smiled. “Greg Lestrade is a smiler, you know. One of those people who always smiles, always greets you with a grin or a joke or a compliment. He’s just like that.”

“Nauseatingly happy, you mean?”

“Just cheerful, everyday, despite what happens to be going on in his personal life, he never brings it to work, never inflicts it on anybody else. However, I’ve known Greg a long time, we used to work together when he started out in A&E, and I also know what he’s been through in his life. His wife cheated on him, more than once. She always came back to him, for the sake of their twin daughters I think, and he just let it go, every time. They’re divorced now, only a few months ago, and he’s getting on with his life, at last, but I knew him early in his career, when we were both at the Royal London. Oh, he was a looker alright, had the women, and the men, falling over themselves...but that’s another story. He was faithful though, despite his wife’s roving eye. He never followed up the offers and there were plenty, make no mistake about it.”

“I can imagine,” Mycroft agreed, because he could. Lestrade was an attractive man. 

“Well, there was this hospital administrator back then, thought he was the bees’ knees. Made a habit of putting everyone’s back up, introduced cost-cutting measures that weren’t popular, cut staffing budgets, a real pain in the arse he was. Nobody liked him. He was good looking though, and more than a bit of a ladies’ man. We still used to joke that if he dropped dead in the middle of the hospital then nobody would help him. Well, he got on the wrong side of Greg the first moment they met. Didn’t help that he was the first person Greg’s wife had an affair with and they weren’t discreet about it either. The man just about flaunted it in Greg’s face. Well, the man nearly did drop dead one night, he was rushed in with a heart attack, and Greg was on duty in A&E. Greg was the consummate professional, did everything right, actually saved the man’s life, but he never smiled, never once. He just did what he had to do, for his own conscience, and that was that. Never cracked a smile, never said anything reassuring or helpful, just...did the job. Did it to the best of his ability as well and then handed the man’s care to someone else.” She paused, thoughtful and a little sad. “It’s not just been the once either. He smiles and reassures and does his best to inform his patients and encourage them. He’s no saint, mark my words. He can be an irritating frustrating idiot at times but he’s always there for his patients. However, if he doesn’t like someone, he won’t smile. He’s polite, always, but...doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say much, never says anything reassuring either. With you, though, I have no idea what you think you’ve done to him, but...you’re not getting that. He’s smiling at you, and doing his best to reassure you. If he hated you, you simply wouldn’t get any of that. So that’s why I think the way I do about you, Mr Holmes.” 

“I...probably won’t endear myself to you then, Sister. I tried to get him dismissed…”

“Dismissed? What on earth for?”

“He defied me, over my brother’s welfare. It angered me.”

“Greg would have his reasons then, and they would have been good ones.”

“I failed to get him dismissed, as you can see. Whom does he know, Sister? He has someone quite... _powerful_ on his side…”

“Oh, that’s probably his dad.”

“Dad? His father?”

“Oh yes. He’s a lovely man, and very protective of his boy. Don’t misunderstand, Greg has got where he is by hard work and study, not by nepotism. Greg deliberately didn’t want that. Made no bones about that, forgive the pun…” she giggled. “No, our Greg is here because he deserves to be but it doesn’t do you any harm when your father is so well placed.”

“What in Heaven does he do? Who is he?”

“Frederick Buckley,” Martha replied softly. “Equerry to Her Majesty the Queen.”

“What?” Mycroft was stunned. _Gregory Lestrade was Freddy’s son?_ Mycroft sank into monumental embarrassment. _God, how will I live this one down?_ “But his name…”

“Frederick Buckley married Veronica Lestrade after her first husband died. Greg was only seventeen but he was an adult and elected to keep his father’s name. It’s a second marriage for both of them. Greg loves Fred like he was his proper father though, and Fred loves him right back.” Martha paused, seeing the half-closed eyes Mycroft was fighting to keep from closing completely. “Alright. I can see that’s quite enough. You need rest, Mr Holmes. If it’s of any comfort, Greg obviously doesn’t hold a grudge, so rest easy. Goodnight, Mr Holmes. Evening staff will be on around eight. If you need anything, buzz.”

By the time the tests were over the following day, Mycroft was at the end of his endurance. The tilt table test left him dizzy, and almost fainting. The stress test, running on a treadmill while hooked up to all manner of monitors and breathing apparatus, left him well-nigh exhausted. He was subjected to another raft of electrocardiogram tests, more blood taking and obviously anything else Lestrade had thought of in the interim. On his return to his bed he fell asleep almost immediately. 

There were voices nearby, and Mycroft struggled to listen to them. He opened his eyes to see Gregory and a doctor he didn’t recognise standing at the far side of his room, obviously discussing his case and frowning over papers.

“I think it might be Brugada.” The speaker was the stranger; short dark hair, dark eyes, narrow face. He looked familiar but Mycroft could not conjure up the name. “All these point at it.”

“He wouldn’t be the typical Brugada patient though.”

“No, but you always say to ignore the typical.”

“Well, not exactly _ignore_ , Philip.” 

“No, alright but, what is it you’re fond of saying… When you have eliminated the impossible diagnosis, whatever remains, however improbable for the patient, must be the right one?”

“Something like that, yes.” Lestrade smiled. Mycroft found himself wishing someone would smile at him like that. There was a camaraderie, shared humour. Victor had treated him like that. His heart flinched with the pain of it. “Well, I’m more inclined to PCCD,” Lestrade was saying. The other doctor perused the results, his dark head bend over the papers thoughtfully. 

“Now you mention it...I can see there’s more evidence for that than Brugada.”

“Would you do me a EP on Mr Holmes tomorrow, Phil? That should confirm it.”

“I would have thought you’d have wanted to do it?”

“Quite apart from the fact I’m double booked with a triple by-pass, I would rather stand back from him. I need impartial judgement.”

“Oh? That’s not like you.”

“No, but I…” there was a sudden curse. “Ow, fuck…” Gregory was massaging his fingers again.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Not getting any better, definitely.”

“Are you okay to operate? I mean…Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, of course you are otherwise you would have handed over already…”

“S’okay, Phil, you’re quite right to ask. Rayne is assisting, I’m covered.”

“You should speak to Matthew in Physio, you know. In case you didn’t know, that’s his specialist area. He’s got some good therapies that you should maybe consider sooner rather than later…”

“Thanks, Phil, I just don’t like to be reminded.”

Mycroft missed anything further as his body decided it was time to sleep some more. His eyes drifted shut and he did not see the two men leave. 


	6. No Smoke Without Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg to the rescue, again...

Greg signed off Sherlock to return home that afternoon, into the care of John Watson, who had, it seemed, taken three weeks off work to care for him. 

“So, you have lots of appointments to manage. John, see he gets to them all, yes? Make sure he takes all his meds too, they’re essential.”

“Of course.” Watson shook his hand. “Thank you, for everything.”

“No problem. I do, however, expect an invite to the wedding. You can name your firstborn after me.”

Watson blushed and Sherlock nodded. “You may even be asked to be best man at this rate.”

“It would be a pleasure, really.”

“Greg, how is my brother?”

“Well, he’s had some tests done today, which have been quite illuminating. He won’t be pleased but there’s another test he needs before I’ll be sure.” 

“May I see him before I go?”

“Sure. Far as I’m concerned you can.”

“Thank you.” 

“You want to go now?”

“Yes, please.”

“Sherlock, I’ll take your bags to the car,” John said. “I’m sure Greg can accompany you?” He hefted the bags. “Probably not a good idea for me to come too.”

“But John…”

“I can come with you,” Greg agreed. “No worries. John’s right. It’s probably not the best thing to do, besides, I’ve got the test results to discuss with him anyway.” 

As they walked slowly to Mycroft’s room, Sherlock leaned on Greg’s arm and frowned. 

“What’s the matter?” Greg asked. 

“He’s really going to be alright?”

“I hope so, Sherlock. Test results have enabled me to revise my diagnosis anyway.”

“I just wish…”

“What?”

“I wish I could have my brother back, as he was before...well, before he lost Victor. He was truly wonderful before that.” Sherlock chuckled. “Neither of us were saints, but he was...we were...always there for each other, but not like this.”

“Yeah, well, grief can hit you hard, and it takes different people different ways.”

“My brother was truly _heartbroken,_ wasn’t he?” 

“Yeah, well, medically, we can put his heart back to rights. Mentally might be another thing entirely, and that is not my area of expertise.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

“In this case, my best might not be good enough.”

Greg knocked at the door and went in, smiling at the tired man in the bed. “Now then, Mr Holmes, how are you?”

“Exhausted. Are you certain all those tests were strictly necessary, or were you just vindictively getting your own back?”

“I’m not that petty,” Greg grinned. “All necessary, I can assure you. Moreover, having reviewed the evidence, I am revising my diagnosis.”

“I see, so they were completely unnecessary then.”

“I’m not infallible, Mr Holmes. I required those tests to give me more information before proceeding. I would be guilty of gross negligence if I didn’t use everything in my power to make sure my diagnosis was correct. Heaven help me if I set you off on the wrong treatment. Now, having reviewed the results, I thought you might have a condition called Brugada Syndrome. However, on reflection, and discussion with my colleagues, I am more inclined toward something called PCCD, Progressive Cardiac Conduction Defect.”

“That sounds rather intimidating.”

“You don’t quite tick the boxes for Brugada, so I’m ordering another test for tomorrow, an electrophysical study. If the EP test shows positive, you’ll probably require an ICD, an implantable cardioverter defibrillator, fitted. It delivers pulses to your heart to correct any abnormal rhythms, done much the same way as a pacemaker, but it does a bit more than a pacemaker can. It continually monitors your heart rate and makes sure you get the appropriate stimulus.”

“That sounds….serious…”

“It is, and if my diagnosis is right, you are at very great risk of cardiac arrest, and you need to realise that, so this needs accomplishing as quickly as we can. The EP tomorrow will hopefully confirm my findings. While I don’t want to make this sound daunting, I want you to understand the seriousness of it. Complete bed rest, until further notice. I’ve pencilled in your op for friday.”

“So soon? My prognosis is not...favourable, then?”

“Mycroft, please,” Sherlock said. “Greg is the best and he will see you right. You know he will.”

“I will do my very best for you, you should know that,” Greg agreed. “We’ll do the EP tomorrow, and find out more then. Until then, try to stay calm. The test isn’t as stressful as today. It’s a bit invasive but you will be sedated, so you have no need to worry. We’ve got you under observation, we’re monitoring you constantly, so don’t worry about a thing, you got that? We’ve moved you to ICU, so you can receive the proper care. Once Sherlock has gone, I’ll outline exactly what the procedure entails, and you can ask me any questions, okay?”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Mr Lestrade. Now, Sherlock, I gather you are going home with John?”

“Yes. I am.” Sherlock glanced at Greg, a little put off by his brother’s seeming lack of concern. “Please do not try to stop me.”

“I have no intention of doing so. I am hardly in a state to oversee your care, and you do need someone to watch out for you. You are quite capable of informing the Inspector on my behalf, if he doesn’t care for you to the best of his ability, I will have him demoted so far he will be on school crossing patrol for the rest of his days. Make sure that the man goes on the waggon, immediately. I shall know if he does not.” 

“You could even report his car stolen and have him pulled over,” Greg murmured while looking at nobody in particular. Mycroft glanced sharply at him but he busied himself checking the monitoring equipment and wouldn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes. Sherlock watched his brother blush, and frowned. “Okay, guys,” Greg said. “I am going to leave you alone for a while. I shall come back for you in about ten minutes, Sherlock. Don’t upset him.”

Sherlock watched him leave then he rounded on his brother. His voice was low, but fierce. “You really have been a stupid arse, you know that? What did you do? He told me he had been pulled over, and had his bank account messed with and his phone hacked. You really are a vindictive idiot, you know that? He’s done nothing but good for me, and now you, and you decide to do all that? Why? Just because he took my side and refused to be pushed around by a bureaucratic twat?” 

Mycroft sighed. “I thought you were told not to upset me?”

“Upset you? I’m telling the truth, Mycroft.”

“If we are being so truthful, that wasn’t the worst of my actions…”

“Mycroft, what did you do?”

“Tried to do, you mean. I tried to get him removed.”

“What do you mean, removed?”

“Dismissed, sacked, his contract terminated. I didn’t succeed, as you can see, and I...regret that particular move, if it’s of any interest.” 

“Good job too, you arse. Jesus, Mycroft, what were you thinking? You’ve become a proper monster since Victor died. Vic was a lovely man, and you are not honouring his memory by behaving like this, you know that? You are not the Mycroft I used to know…”

“Yes, well, I’m not the Mycroft you kn…” The man’s voice failed him. 

“I want that man back, Mycroft,” Sherlock grabbed his hand. “I want that man back, because I miss him, very much. I do not want what you’ve become since Victor’s death. It was not your fault, you know, it could not have been helped. All you’ve been since you lost him is broken and angry. You are losing everything, Mycroft. You lost him, but you’re going to lose me too if you keep on this way. I want you back, Mycroft. I...I need you.”

“No, you don’t. Let us face that fact now, shall we? You have John…”

“Don’t be such an arse! I know I have John, but I need my big brother too. Come back to me, please?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, regretfully. “I am not sure I know how…”

“Let Greg help you.”

“Sherlock, he is a doctor, not a psychiatrist.”

“He’s more than that, Mycroft. He wants to help you. He likes you, for some undefinable reason. He’d be your friend, if you’d let him.”

“Sherlock, I do not have friends.”

“You could. Don’t be stubborn, Mycroft. Think about it. Really think, please. Now, I’m going because John will be waiting and worrying. Think about what I have said. Goodbye, brother.” Sherlock got up, not waiting for Greg to return.

“Sherlock...please…”

“Goodbye, Mycroft. Let me know how things go.” The doors swung shut on his brother’s departing back. Desperately, Mycroft threw the covers off and climbed out of bed. He called out Sherlock’s name and made it two steps away before the dizziness caught him and he reeled. Something started beeping madly. He heard the door opening, a muffled curse, and then nothing…

When he came to, Mycroft focused on a figure sitting on the bed, watching him.

“Gr..Gregory?”

“Yes, I’m here. What happened, Mycroft?”

“I...Sherlock and I, we...parted on...terms that were less than...satisfactory.” 

“And?”

“I tried to follow him.”

“I see.”

“I felt dizzy and...that’s all I remember.”

“Okay, you pushed yourself too much, didn’t you? On top of those tests today. Ignoring me already. Look, Mycroft, I have no idea what transpired between you and Sherlock, but you have to take things easy.”

“He was...a little disgusted with me. I…. well, I realise I have been….not myself in a long time.”

“Since you lost your partner, yes?”

“Yes…” 

“Not unusual, you know.”

“I am still grieving. His loss was devastating to me. I do not know how to go back to being the person Sherlock wants me to be. For all I know, that person may not have existed in the first place.”

“I understand. It’s what, two years ago? That’s not a lot of time.”

“I am still angry, I know. Angry and sad and lonely…” Mycroft paused and seemed to withdraw into himself. “Why am I telling you? It has nothing to do with you.”

“Well, technically, it does. If it’s affecting you adversely, then it becomes my business. Look, Mycroft, it’s your choice, but if you want an ear, I can listen. You don’t have to say anything, but it might help you…”

“Heaven’s above, you sound as though I’m under arrest. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court….”

Greg chuckled. “Well, what you’re doing to yourself if bloody criminal. Does that count? I would gather you’ve never spoken to anyone about any of it, true?”

Mycroft nodded. “I don’t want to speak to a stranger. I do not want my private life and emotions dragged out for examination. It is mortifying.”

“You loved him deeply, hm?”

“Of course I bloody did! He was everything to me.” 

“Sometimes, Mycroft, it does help to talk. Even if it’s to a friend.”

“I don’t have _friends._ At least, nobody I could talk to that intimately.”

“Well, when Lynn and I started to realise our marriage was going down the swanny, we tried, we really did, we even went to a marriage counselor, but… didn’t work. It helped just to talk it out with friends though, to see a bit more clearly.” Greg paused and fixed Mycroft with a look. “When did you suspect there was something wrong? With you?”

“I...I didn’t...I...have never known for sure...”

“Maybe not, but you’ve wondered, right? No symptoms at all? Because you give me the feeling you’re running scared. You know there’s something but you don’t want to find out what it is in case it’s bad.”

Mycroft sighed, resigned. “I used to faint a lot as a child. Mummy got used to it. I was cleared of having anything like epilepsy, or anything else brain-related. I did not experience a fit, I just...passed out. It was something that just happened to me. I never went to another doctor with it, because the first one said I would grow out of it and we took him at his word. There was a period where I was fine, I ate frugally, and I did not unduly exert myself. Just recently, after Victor, and then with all this to-do with Sherlock, it has happened more frequently…”

“You never thought to share that with me? It was probably the stress that made things worse.”

“I wasn’t thinking, was I? Besides...I was...antagonistic toward you. Forgive me? I have been...a colossal arse.”

“Well, there is that. You caused me no end of irritation. Look, Mycroft, water under the bridge. Seriously. Let’s get you on the mend, shall we?” 

“You are very...forgiving.”

“Life’s too short, mate. Take what it chucks your way and roll with it. Look, when you’re on your feet again, if you feel like meeting for coffee, or anything, just say so, okay? If you just would like to have a quiet tea in the restaurant here, say so. Doesn’t change anything, but let’s start over, hm? You and me? We got off on the wrong foot.” Greg stuck his hand out and Mycroft took it after only a brief hesitation. They shook hands but Greg had to suppress the wince of pain. 

“What is it?” Mycroft asked gently. “Arthritis?”

Greg shot him a look, defensive and wary. He nodded and took a deep breath. “Only started to bother me last year. Doesn’t interfere with my work yet, but...one day it will. So you see, Myc, we all have our tragedies. This will kill my career one day. What a thing to look forward to.”

“I thought you were angry with me, when I first saw you ball your hand into a fist.”

Greg chuckled. “It catches me unawares occasionally. So far it’s only in a couple of fingers on each hand. Hardly inspires confidence in my ability as a surgeon though.”

“If it’s of any consequence, your knowledge as a surgeon is undiminished. Your experience is second to none, and your abilities, well, perhaps your delegating the more delicate work is a prudent measure but...you have not lost everything, not yet.” Mycroft sighed. “Whereas I nearly have. I’ve been a bloody fool,” he said disparagingly. “Too ready to see the worst in you.” 

“You’re human, Myc.That’s all.”

“Your actions with that boy… nothing short of amazing. I was...very impressed.”

“Thanks but honestly, that kind of thing used to be routine for me. Well, come on then, let’s have a proper look at you, check nothing too untoward occured, yes?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Mister, not doctor. Come on then, let’s see how you’re doing. We’ve both got plans to make for the future, haven’t we?”

**000000000000000000000**

Mycroft tried, he really did, to baton his nerves down, but nothing he did seemed to ease the growing feeling of dread. He knew they were about to sedate him, and Greg Lestrade himself was about to perform the operation to fit him a pacemaker, or rather an implantable cardioverter defibrillator. _What a mouthful_ , he thought, _no wonder they referred to it as an ICD._ Following further tests, Greg and his team had determined that was the best course for him. Mycroft was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, waiting for them to come collect him, feeling like a man awaiting execution. He had never been in hospital for surgery before. Despite being in his mid-forties, he had escaped being hospitalised for anything other than outpatients. Being on the hospital board did nothing to prepare him for any of this. Clad in a thin hospital gown and ridiculous white compression stockings on his feet, he felt silly; a middle aged man with a crisis of confidence, made to look stupid by his hospital attire, ordinary and vulnerable. A knock at the door cut across his musings and a familiar face hove into view.

“Can I come in?”

“Gregory?”

“Yup, how are you feeling?”

“Fine...Fine…”

“Of course you are.” Greg was smiling warmly. “Okay, then. What can I do to help you feel...well, finer than you are?”

“I...I shouldn’t be feeling like this…”

Dark eyes gazed at him sympathetically. “It’s normal, Mycroft. Look, I know I’ve explained the procedure to you, but...I can go over it again if you like, until you’re comfortable. I’ve got both Rayne and Phil assisting. They’re my best and you have nothing to worry about. I have Mike Stamford with me today, he’ll be your anaesthetist, and he’s also my best. We’ve pulled the stops out for you, so rest easy. Okay?”

“Will it work?”

“I’m confident it will. I’ve given it a good talking to, it knows the score, it’s been given it’s orders and it knows I don’t take any nonsense. It’ll work fine. It’s not allowed not to.” He grinned. “Look, I’ve done this a few times now, Mycroft. They do work, believe me.”

“You sound confident, at any rate.”

“Because I am. And what’s more, you’re not going to be unconscious. Just sedated.”

“That’s the part that worries me most.”

“What, because you’ll be awake? Most people prefer it.”

“It is the loss of control I abhor very the idea of.”

“You won’t lose control, promise. It’s sedation, Mycroft, not rohypnol. It’s there to calm you, to mitigate any stress. You won’t see anything. This thing gets implanted just below your left clavicle, with leads threaded through the veins to your heart. It’ll be very difficult to see me doing anything and you won’t feel a thing. It’s all done under local anaesthetic, which Mike will manage for you. Hey, you’ve got me doing this. Nothing but the best, okay?”

“Ah, the arrogance of the surgeon…”

“I leave my ego at the door, I’ll have you know.” Greg looked affronted, but couldn’t keep the pretence up and smiled. 

“Why are you here anyway?” Mycroft asked.

“I am doing my pre-op checks with my patient…”

“They were done before you arrived, by Sister Hudson, no less.”

“Nope, those were the pre-pre-op checks.”

“Ridiculous man. You are pulling my leg.”

“Well, someone has to.” Greg sat on the bed beside him. “Seriously, Mycroft, I wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s why I’m here.” he checked his watch. “We’ve loads of time. I’ll walk you down to theatre, and hand you over to Mike while I go get ready. You’ll be in very safe hands. Promise.”

“Why are you doing this for me? Consultants never do this.”

“Because.”

“Seriously, Gregory, why?”

“Soft touch, that’s me. You’ve had a lot to contend with recently. I’m just...well, making sure you’re...well, I want you to feel supported, Mycroft. You’re not on your own. You’re not facing this alone. Okay?” 

The door opened and Sister Hudson appeared, forestalling anything Mycroft might have been about to say in reply. “Time to get you ready for surgery, Mr Holmes...Oh, Greg, didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Martha. Thought I’d walk him down there.” 

The lady smiled knowingly. “While you’re here, I was just going to put a cannula in. Unless you’d like to…?” She held out the tray with the various bits of equipment and he took it from her. 

“Yeah, I think I can just about manage that. Seem to have been doing it a lot lately.” Greg nodded to her and went about sorting the things he needed, tugging on gloves, then taking things out of their sterile packaging and setting them ready. He continuously watched Mycroft for any discomfort. The man had a bad case of nerves, but that was settling, more and more as they talked. Greg realised, quite suddenly, that he would go a long way to try mitigating any distress this man was under. He wondered at his own motivations. 

Mycroft watched Greg work, readying the bits and pieces he required, pulling a pair of nitrile gloves on. “Not going for my jugular then?” Mycroft asked.

“Not this time, no. I’ll save that for when you really piss me off.” 

“You mean I haven’t already?”

“Nah, that didn’t even scratch the surface.”

“That’s not what you gave me to understand at the time,” Mycroft said. All he got was a grin as Greg swabbed the back of Mycroft’s hand and tapped it to raise a vein. He paused. “Alright?” he asked gently. 

“After watching you put one in someone’s neck, I am confident you can manage the back of my hand. Besides, doesn’t this make it third time lucky?” 

“I’ll even save you the cliched joke,” Greg offered with a smile. “Now, you’ll just feel a sharp scratch,” he said warningly, and pressed the needle home. Blood welled up the tube, indicating he had managed to place the line within the vein, and Greg withdrew the needle, leaving the thin tube with it’s valve cap in place. He taped everything down to Mycroft’s skin and tidied up. “There you go, all set.” 

Martha nodded approval. “I’m still amazed at how many doctors can’t do a proper job of that, you know.” 

Greg glanced up and smiled. “I always figured it was worth knowing how, not to mention worth doing well. Blame it on an A&E background.” 

“I could not have imagined you in A&E before seeing you in action with that young man...” Mycroft observed.

“Oh, I was, believe me, and he was easy by comparison to some. Four years of hell, but it was a good proving ground.” Greg stripped off the gloves and dropped them in the bin. Then he reached for Mycroft’s dressing gown. “Here. Best put this on or you’ll be showing that nice arse off to everyone. Those gowns are drafty at the back.” Greg held out the soft dark blue paisley silk and Mycroft let him help put it on, wondering at the ‘nice arse’ comment. 

“Thank you. I...do I walk there?” 

“Wheelchair, I think. Don’t want to risk exertion of any kind before we get you sorted. It’s a long way to theatre from here.” He looked at Martha. “Is there a wheelchair around we can use for Mr Holmes please?”

“I’m sure I can find one. Be back in a mo.” She disappeared through the door and silence fell.

“You’ll be fine, Mycroft.” A reassuring hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

“Thank you, for being here. I do not deserve this.” 

“Don’t be daft,” Greg said. “Besides, I want to be here. Look, this will all be over in about two hours, and most of that you will be lying there without a care in the world. I’ll be with you all the way, don’t forget. We’ll get you sorted with the aftercare and you’ll live a perfectly ordinary life, just with less chance of a cardiac arrest, or any more fainting. Just stay away from airport security and strong magnets. You’ll have to carry an ICD card to tell people you’re fitted with one, and declare it to your health insurance, but otherwise…”

“What about...well, um...intimacy?” Mycroft couldn’t help the blush that arose.

“Oh, well, you should be fine to have sex as soon as you feel recovered. Just make sure you don’t move your left arm higher than head height for a couple of weeks, makes sure the leads into your heart don’t shift before they’ve settled. So don’t play golf, okay? And don’t put any weight on that shoulder until things are really healed. Sex is fine though. The exertion isn’t putting undue stress on your heart, honestly. A defibrillator is there to help, but some patients can suffer anxiety over it. Talk to the team who will be keeping an eye on you afterward, Mycroft. They can help. They have the answers you’ll need, and if you do experience symptoms of anxiety, tell us. Don’t hide it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We can mitigate it.” 

“I confess I would rather talk to you.”

“Anytime, Mycroft. You can talk to me whenever you feel the need, but bear in mind the team are dealing with patients like you every day, they know the strategies and day to day concerns, so use them as well, ay?”

Greg stayed with him all the way down to theatre, introduced him to the individual members of the team, and left him in Mike Stamford’s hands while he went to change and scrub up. It was a drowsy Mycroft who was waiting for him as he stepped into theatre, but the man’s eyes still took in his appearance, dressed head to toe in scrubs as he was. There was approval there, unguarded interest, the fentanyl having reduced his inhibitions but rendered him suitably lethargic and relaxed. Greg doubted Mycroft would even recall much of the procedure, much less the people around him, and found he might actually regret that a little. 

The Scrub nurse came forward to check they had everything they needed, recited Mycroft’s full name and the procedure they would be performing, double checking they had the right patient and the correct procedure married up. 

“Right, everyone, are we ready?” Greg asked, and receiving nods and murmurs of agreement. “Let’s get on then, shall we?” 


	7. Like a Moth to a Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft attempts to bridge the gap but has an unexpected setback. Greg has a trick up his sleeve though, and leaves him a little Valentine's message.

A few weeks later, in a quiet corner of the staff restaurant, a post-op Mycroft Holmes found himself sipping Earl Grey across from the silver-haired consultant cardiologist who was currently reading an article in the Lancet, while drinking his coffee. The two men were enjoying a companionable hour in relative peace and quiet. Greg finished reading, glanced up and smiled at Mycroft. “So, how are you feeling now?”

“Remarkably well, all things considered. The implant is doing its job efficiently.”

“Good. Has it needed to deliver a shock yet?”

“Only once. It was like being kicked in the chest.” Mycroft rubbed his fist absently along his breastbone. 

“You had that explained to you though?”

“Oh yes, the team are very thorough. It was...unpleasant but manageable.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it isn’t nice, but it’s better than a cardiac arrest after all.”

Mycroft nodded. “I gather I may owe you my life.”

“You’ve been talking to Phil, haven’t you? He likes to over dramatise.”

“Nonsense. He explained to me the difficulties in diagnosing my condition, and the fact that, in his opinion, you are a brilliant diagnostician. I think you have a fan.” 

Greg laughed. “Well, if I was so good, I would have picked up on your condition when you fainted the first time, despite the fact that the virus probably masked it. Phil is a good doctor in his own right. I never regretted having him on my team, although he does his best to hide behind a sarky exterior sometimes. Between him and Rayne, they can handle my workload quite competently.”

“It may interest you to know, I have reduced mine. I have taken on an assistant.”

“Wow, that’s progress. What’s he like?”

“She. Anthea is efficiency itself. She’s a good woman to have at your back.”

Greg’s expression turned sly and he arched a speculative eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?” he asked, cheekily.

For a moment, Mycroft looked thrown. “I hardly see why you should…”

“That’s good. Good that you have help.” Greg said, changing the subject. “How’s Sherlock now? I haven’t seen him lately either. He should be due for a review soon, I believe.”

“I was asked for my blessing yesterday,” Mycroft revealed, eyebrow raised. He quirked a smile. 

“Really? That’s great. Er...you did give it, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course. What else could I do? They would go ahead and do it anyway."

"Your parents okay about it?"

"Surprisingly unruffled, all things considered.

"So when’s the happy day?”

“June, I believe.”

“I’m really happy for them,” Greg replied with enthusiasm.

“I thought you would be. You seem to be happy for most people.”

“Well, bit of good news is always welcome.”

“And I gather young Mr Wiggins survived his ordeal?” Mycroft enquired.

“Good news there too. Recovered very well, suffered no ill effects. Parents were very grateful apparently. John told me that Sherlock was right about that. Someone dropped Wiggins off outside, quite literally, and that they’d traced the car and arrested a man in connection with it.”

“What happened? Did you find out?”

“Oh, apparently it was a fight that got out of hand. Wiggins and the man they arrested were in a long distance relationship that Wiggins wanted to end, and the man reacted violently when they met to discuss things. He then had a fit of conscience and tried to find a hospital. Didn’t know the area so dropped him off somewhere that said Hospital, without checking if it had an A&E department or not.”

“Lucky for him it was this one. Your actions that day were...illuminating.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Mycroft gave him a tight lipped smile and took a sip of his tea, deflecting. 

“So, Gregory,” he said eventually, “are you...alright?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m okay. Lynn, the ex-, sent me a formal invitation to their wedding yesterday. She and her new fella are getting married in August.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Content, actually. I’m glad she’s okay, really. I’m not going, but I’ll send them a pressie. Something really bloody awful,” he said, speculatively. “A garden gnome maybe? I might send one of those that moons at people.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Oh yes, Mycroft, it’s an actual honest-to-god thing alright.” 

“It sounds suitably detestable. May I suggest, perhaps sourcing the most garish wrapping paper you can find would add to the effect? Or a box, perhaps. Something noticeable. Then of course all their guests will press them to open it there and then to find out what lies within?”

“That’s a grand idea.” Greg grinned delightedly. “Does mean that we both have to come up with something just as bad for Sherlock and John's gift, though, don't you think?"

"Indubitably," Mycroft agreed.

"You know, I underestimated your sense of humour when we first met," Greg observed. "I was so sure you didn’t have one.”

“I cannot condemn you for that, Gregory. It was so deeply buried even I was uncertain of finding it again.”

“Well, seems like that’s starting to change.”

“Indeed. Talking of change, I wonder, if...well, Greg…” Mycroft had gone a bit hesitant. “Would you, er… Would you consider dinner, with me, tomorrow night? I wanted to… remunerate you for all the trouble I put you through…and, well, it is Valentine’s Day tomorrow...” Mycroft paused as Greg’s expression turned regretful. “Is there a problem?” 

“Mycroft, I can’t. I have...a prior arrangement.” 

“Oh. I see.” Mycroft looked a little crestfallen.

“Not sure you do.”

“You have a date. It’s....understandable, it being Valentine’s Day.”

“Actually no, I don’t. I...it’s just a prior engagement I can’t back out of.”

“Then...maybe next week?”

“I won’t be able to manage next week either.” Greg rolled his eyes and sighed. “For God’s sake, I'm sorry, but I...um...I’m leaving later this evening.” 

“Leaving?” By his expression, Mycroft was jumping to more conclusions. It would have been funny but for the distress Greg saw in his eyes, even if that distress did not make it to the rest of his face. Problem was, he didn’t know what was prompting it. 

“Yup. I’ve got to make a meeting with my team today, and then I’m off to pack.” 

“But, you’re not...I mean....you can’t! P.p.please tell me you haven’t tendered your resignation? Nobody said anything…” 

_Stuttering too,_ Greg thought. _Unable to form a sentence? Definitely not Mycroft behaviour._ “No. God, no!” Greg replied, trying to diffuse Mycroft’s panic. “I’m not actually leaving for good. It’s my...well, my yearly break, I suppose you could call it.”

“Oh. Holiday? Well, I suppose this last few weeks have been a bit stressful.” Mycroft tried hard not to let his disappointment show. “Anywhere nice? At this time of year somewhere warm would be acceptable.”

Greg knew he could fob the man off at this point. _God knows, it’s nobody’s business but mine,_ he thought. Something about the man’s earlier distress prompted him to be more truthful though. 

“Nope, not exactly. I’ll be heading to the Yemen for six weeks…”

“The Yemen! But they’re in the middle of a civil war. Good grief, why on earth would you go there?”

“Médecins Sans Frontières, Mycroft. I take part every year. This’ll be my sixth.”

“Médecins Sans Frontières?” Mycroft was momentarily thrown. “Your...your sixth? But...that’s not in your file…How did I not know?”

“Because what I do with my holidays is nobody’s business but mine,” Greg said firmly, then looked at him a little strangely, eyes narrowed. “You read my personnel file?”

“I...yes.”

“Do I want to know why?”

There was silence for a moment. “I confess I was trying to find out more about you, to better understand what makes you tick.”

Mycroft was surprised when Greg smiled. “Know thine enemy, hm?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Mycroft shifted, clearly embarrassed.

“Kind of glad to know that makes you feel uncomfortable now,” Greg observed. 

“Well...I would like to think we are…” Mycroft paused, choosing his next words carefully, “...no longer enemies.”

“We’re getting there,” Greg admitted. 

“Did I hear you correctly? You did say six weeks?”

“Yes, you heard correctly. I go where they send me for six weeks, where surgical help is needed most.” 

“Gregory, that’s an awful lot of time to be away, not to mention the fact that you will be heading into a dangerous environment.”

“It often is, yes. Don’t worry, I’ve had all my vaccinations.”

“But...why on earth do you do it?”

“Because I can. They need people like me, Mycroft. I live a very privileged life here in the west; good salary, good food, relative peace. The folks in those areas don’t have a lot of choice. They live in disaster zones, and they need help. I’m not an idealist, just someone who figures it’s worthwhile to do what I can. Six weeks out of my year is a small amount and this place gives me eight weeks holiday anyway so I always manage a proper break later.”

“That’s...very admirable of you, Gregory, but…”

“Would have thought you'd be happy, Mycroft. I'll be out of your hair at last. You'll be free of me for a month and a half.”

“I find myself having to admit, the prospect is not as appealing as it would have been a few weeks ago.” He missed the curious look Greg gave him. 

“You don’t have to worry, you know? I’m handing your care over to Rayne Jeffreys while I’m gone. She’s my deputy anyway, and she’s been in on your surgery from the start, she knows what’s what. She’s my go-to for heart related matters, while Philip is better with other thoracic stuff. You’ll be in very good hands.” 

“That’s not what concerns me….” 

“I'll be back before you know it, Mycroft. We’re both busy people, it’ll fly by. We can have that dinner when I'm home. It'll give me something to look forward to.” _When I’m stuck in a tent somewhere up to my eyes in…_.He deliberately let that thought go.

“If you’re sure?” Mycroft sounded uncertain.

“Of course I’m sure. I’d love to have dinner with you, Myc. It’s just...the arrangements are already in place for our departure from Paris tomorrow, so I’m flying out tonight to meet up with them, and I can’t let them down now. We’re on a charter flight at 9.30am, Paris time, flying out with people and supplies, and I can’t miss it.” He checked his watch. “Had it booked off for weeks. Talking of which, I need to get gone. Team meeting in ten but first I have to get to CCU. Cannot miss this either. It’s the final team briefing before I head off.” Greg put his magasine away and picked up his briefcase. “So, you take care while I’m gone, eh?”

“I shall. I... Thank you...for everything.” 

“Pleasure, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stood and offered his hand. He found it engulfed in Greg’s grip, and then the man used it to tug him forward and he found himself wrapped in a rather surprising hug. Greg patted him affectionately on the back and then squeezed his right shoulder gently as he drew away. 

“You look after yourself, you hear me?” 

“Yes, yes, I will. Gregory…” 

“Yes?”

“Do take care of yourself, won’t you?”

“Oh, I will. Don’t worry about that.” Mycroft found himself released, and Greg stepped away from him, sketched a wave and walked quickly away. Mycroft watched him go, his emotions in a turmoil.

As Greg threw his bag into the taxi later that evening, he wasn’t surprised that there was nobody there to see him off. He felt vaguely disappointed though, but shook the feeling off, wondering at Mycroft’s responses from earlier. The man was a bit of an enigma, that was certain. Greg wasn’t quite sure whether Mycroft was worried that his care had been passed to someone else, or whether there was something else going on. Working that out would have to wait until he got back. _Six weeks is enough time for the man to order his thoughts_ , Greg considered. He wondered what Mycroft’s reaction would be when he found the thing Greg had left for him. 

Waking with his alarm at 6.30am the following morning, Mycroft glanced at the display and wondered where Greg was. Paris was forward by an hour, so he would be there by now, getting ready for the flight in a couple of hours. The Yemen was approximately seven hours and nearly four thousand miles away. He wouldn’t be touching down there until later that afternoon. Mycroft rose from his bed with a heartfelt sigh, and went to shower and ready himself for the day ahead; a day without Gregory Lestrade in it. The first of forty. _Forty days and forty nights,_ he thought. His own temptation. His own version of purgatory. He knew he shouldn’t be finding them so hard to face. 

**00000000000000**

His office was quiet. He wasn’t sure what to do. _Post. Of course._ Anthea had already opened his envelopes, filtered out the donations, the junk mail, and the requests that she could handle herself, and had set the rest of his letters in his intray for him to go through. Already she had managed to save him time and her organisational skills were accomplishing even more. That meant that Mycroft had less to do to fill his time. While that had been the original goal, now it had the unfortunate result that he had more time to think, and right then, it was not the best of ideas. _Deal with the post. Focus,_ he told himself sharply. As he retrieved the letters from his in-box, however, a rather large envelope fell out onto the desk. It was a nice shade of claret, rather than garish scarlet, heavy enough to be good quality, unstamped, and with no address. Hand delivered then. His name was the only word on the front, written in a rather messy hand. He ripped it open to find a card inside, gold-edged, with a single red rose on the cover, and a message inside which read,

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I’m sorry we couldn’t share that Valentine’s Day meal, but I volunteer with MSF every year. Unfortunately, I'd already given them the dates, and because the ex- and I have been separated for the last year, I no longer felt obliged to be around for Valentines Day. I’m sure you understand that I had no intent to let anybody down by being either late or not there at all. I also think it might be my last stint with them, because my arthritis is getting worse, so I really didn’t want to miss this year’s volunteering. Anyway, I wanted to say, I’m sorry. Bad timing on my part. There are a couple of other things I also want to say, and a card makes it easier for me. I won’t have to see your face when you read it, and if that makes me a coward, then so be it._

_Right, here goes._

_First, I know it isn’t easy, trying to face the world without the person you love at your side. You feel adrift, and not the person you thought you were. You feel diminished, like some part of you has been taken away. However, that part is still there, Mycroft. It never left, not really. It's inside you, you’ll find it again, but when you’re ready, and nobody can tell you when that is. You’ll do it in your time, when you’ve had time to heal. Don’t give up on yourself, and don’t give up on Sherlock and John. They have their own future ahead of them, as do you._

_Second, grief is a weird thing, it’s like being caught by a tidal wave. There’s nothing you can do about it, you just get swept away, and you feel like you’re drowning. Run with it, let it out, let it go. Those tidal waves never get any weaker, they catch you out again and again, but they do get further apart, as time goes on. You will never forget Victor, no more should you, but one day, you’ll hopefully be able to remember him without pain. Unfortunately the pain you’re in right now doesn’t have either an anaesthetic, or a cure, just a placebo. I have to ask though, in your heart of hearts, would you want it to be less, would you want it to disappear? Why does it hurt so much? Because it was real and it hurts because he was worth your love, and you were, you_ are _, worth his._

_And finally, when I get home, I’m going to hazard a guess that we should talk. There are things to discuss and things to consider, and none of them can be done by letter or text. Damn it, I can’t text you anyway, I don’t even have your number. Look on the bright side, I won’t be in your way for over a month! If you still want to, we can go for that meal when I get back, and we shall consider the possibilities then. Still, those weeks will be busy for us both, and as I said, they’ll fly by._

_Now, I feel a bit superstitious about signing this thing. It’s traditional not to, but this situation is about as far from traditional as it’s possible to get. So I've compromised. I've signed with only one initial…_

_Yours,_

_G._

Mycroft stared at the card, stunned, realising his cheeks were wet and the words had gone blurry. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, his chest aching gently, which had nothing whatever to do with his medical problems and everything to do with his fragile heart. He set the card up on his desk, wonderingly. He picked it up again and reread it, then set it back down. He sat for a full fifteen minutes without doing anything, staring at the card on his desk. Five weeks. It would not fly by, despite his busy life. He wondered if Greg realised how debilitating Mycroft already found his absence. He doubted it, because he himself had not realised until he was sitting staring at the card that was now in pride of place on his desk top. Five weeks, until they could talk. He wondered what Gregory had in mind to talk about. He hoped it was what he thought it was. 

“Mr Holmes, sir?” Anthea’s voice from the door broke him out of his revery. 

“Yes, Anthea?”

“You have a meeting with Mr Grint in ten minutes, sir. The plans for the refurbishment? He’s on his way down now. I’ve requested morning tea for you both, sir.”

“Ah yes, thank you, Anthea. I shall take a few minutes to make myself presentable. Inform me when he arrives, won’t you?” He watched the door close and wondered for the umpteenth time where that woman had been all his life. She was a godsend. He shook himself and sighed heavily. 

_Time to get on with reality..._


	8. Out of the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Epilogue! Gods, this turned into an epic. Much love if you've stuck it to the end. Hope you've liked it. Mycroft meets Greg off the plane...
> 
> SINCE WRITING the extra chapter, Nights Like These, for Bourbon-and-Bitters, the winner of my story for the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction, I've amended one or two tiny facts here. Nothing too noticeable, just so the stories fit together better.

“Mycroft! I didn’t expect you to meet me.” Greg looked brown as a nut and tired, but he looked happy. He was obviously one of those people who tanned easily, and Mycroft felt the natural jealousy of those who did the opposite. He was fair skinned, freckled and tended toward red hair. He burned. 

“It was the least I could do,” he replied, airily. “My texts were useful then?”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks. They were very useful, although I had a hard time explaining why I knew that stuff. I kept your name out of it. I thought you wouldn’t want too much publicity. I just told them I had a friend in the UK security services.” 

“I am glad the intel was worth it. I hauled in a few favours to have someone from Q Branch keep an eye on things…”

“Q Branch?”

“Intelligence gathering and technical arm of MI5 and 6.”

“Jesus, Mycroft, you can do that?”

“As I said, I was owed a few favours. I also took the liberty of speaking to St Edward’s HR department and got your last six weeks signed off as a sabbatical. It did not seem fair to me that you should sacrifice your holiday for such a worthy cause.”

“Myc, that’s...that’s really good of you. Thank you.”

“I have also taken the liberty of signing you off for a week’s holiday as of now. You need to recoup your energy. Your operations have been assigned to the rest of your team, so don’t worry. Rayne and Philip were only too happy to agree.”

“You…what?”

“You’re not angry, I hope.”

“No, just...surprised.”

“I am trying hard, Gregory,” Mycroft admitted. “Trying to find the person I used to be.” 

Greg smiled warmly. “I’m glad, Mycroft. I told you, he’s in there somewhere.” Greg shivered. “Come on, Myc, it’s freezing here. Can we get home, please?”

Mycroft grabbed one of Greg’s bags and led them to a waiting car. The driver had the boot open and they offloaded Greg’s luggage into it before getting in to the warmth and comfort offered by the sleek black vehicle. March in England was still cold. Greg had spent the last few weeks being subjected to temperatures in the high seventies and he was far from ready to withstand a brisk London Spring. Mycroft instructed his driver to turn the heating up. 

Greg was largely silent as they drove through the London traffic. Eventually, he turned to Mycroft with a small frown. “Are we not going to the hospital?”

“Once again, I am afraid I have taken a small liberty with the arrangements.”

“Mycroft, I appreciate the gesture, honestly, but I’m knackered. All I want to do is go home, shower, collapse into bed... I won’t be very good company tonight.” 

“Appreciated, but your flat will not be as welcoming as mine. I have a spare warm bedroom with a good comfortable bed, takeaway on order, and there shall be a proper breakfast made for you tomorrow morning. You can also sleep as late as you wish, you shall not be disturbed. I have also taken the day off so I may act as a proper host, and you are under no pressure. Treat my home as your own, and relax in comfort. Look on it as a holiday.”

“I...don’t know what to say?”

“Say yes? Look on this as remuneration for your interrupted New Year?”

Greg huffed a laugh and nodded. “Okay. I accept.” 

Mycroft had been right about something; the last six weeks had not flown by. He had spent all of those weeks checking and rechecking the current situation in the Yemen every day, consulting with his contacts and making arrangements. He had pulled in every favour he possessed in order to make sure Greg was as safe as could be effected given the distance and the uncertain nature of the civil unrest. Mycroft had also exerted his not inconsiderable influence and managed to secure the services of Q Branch to monitor the GPS signal from Greg’s phone, making sure the man could be located and extracted at a moment’s notice should the situation deteriorate in the area in which he was working. Mycroft spent his waking hours working on his usual projects; keeping abreast of the current financial situation in the hospital, keeping his ear to the ground with his usual contacts in the corridors of power, and keeping his appointment with Freddy at the Palace, but he also made time every day to update a certain surgeon on the current situation in his immediate locale, including local intel on where the forces of the civil war were currently operating and if they were on the move. Mycroft did not share his knowledge with Greg's stepfather but the man had stayed silent on his son's whereabouts, so Mycroft had not brought the subject up either. He had no idea whether Gregory had told his parents about his work for MSF and he was not about to reveal anything. Mycroft simply did what he did best; he worked in the background, behind the scenes, influencing people and pulling strings. 

For Greg those six weeks were filled with too much tension and trauma, on many levels. Twice, on Mycroft’s intelligence, they had evacuated from their base, and not a moment too soon. Airstrikes in the vicinity were common. Life focused down into not enough sleep, too much blood, and the rattle of gunfire too close for comfort. While MSF was neutral and operated impartially, there was no immunity to getting caught in crossfire. Their A&E and theatres took everyone and anyone who needed aid, be they soldier or civilian, even soldiers from opposing sides. It was an essential requirement that weapons and affiliations be left at the door. Greg concentrated on his work, kept his head down, and tried not to think of what Mycroft would be doing. 

Finally, long weeks later, Greg had stepped gratefully onto the plane that would take him home. He sent a quick text off to Mycroft to let him know, but wanted nothing more than to sleep. It had been an exhausting time, but they had done so much good. Greg had weathered tragedy before, but war brought tragedy with it as a bedfellow. It was how you dealt with it that mattered. Lyn had hated him volunteering for MSF and had tried to stop him going more than once, playing the emotional blackmail card, which hadn’t worked, but Greg knew he had maybe been too stubborn on the subject and done it to spite her. _Ah well, no good worrying about that now._

He was jolted out of his doze when the car stopped outside the door of a rather palatial townhouse in Belgravia, and the driver held the door open for the two men get out. Mycroft lead Greg inside as the driver went to retrieve Greg’s luggage and they were met by a slim grey-haired woman whom Mycroft introduced as Mrs Turner, his housekeeper. 

“So this is your lovely doctor?” She asked, cheerfully, taking their coats. “Welcome home, sirs. Your food arrived ten minutes ago. I left it in the kitchen. I’ve brewed plenty of tea, and the fridge is stocked. Are you sure you don’t want me to come in tomorrow, Love? I don’t mind, really.”

“No, Mrs Turner,” Mycroft assured as Greg boggled at anyone getting away with calling Mycroft Holmes ‘Love’. “I appreciate your offer but we’d rather a quiet weekend. Mr Lestrade needs to rest, and we have things to discuss, so I shall see you next week. Monday shall be sufficient, do not fret.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes. I do hope you have a nice relaxing time. I shall just fold your laundry and put it in the airing cupboard and then I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Thank you, Mrs Turner.” He flipped out his phone. “I shall tell Jeremy to take you home when you are ready. Ah, did you manage Mr Lestrade’s clothes like I asked?”

“Yes, sir. Washed, dried and ironed. You’ll find your clothes in the drawers in your room, Mr Lestrade.”

“Okay… Thank you.” He gave Mycroft a look, and the man smiled, enigmatically. 

Once the lady had gone, he said, “Mycroft? What did you do?”

“I had Anthea bring some of your clothes over, just so you would be comfortable, that’s all.”

“You really had this all planned, didn’t you? What if I’d really refused you?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t. If you had...well, that would have been a little… embarrassing, I dare say.” 

Greg shook his head, exasperated. “Good job I didn’t then.”

“Please...Gregory, I had the best of intentions. I...I would have let you go home, if you had really insisted…”

“Mycroft…”

“I have no wish to… _force_ anything on you. I merely thought it would be more comfortable here…”

“Mycroft…”

“Where I could care for you…”

“Mycroft. Stop,” Greg insisted gently. “It’s fine. Honestly. Hang on… You said _care for me_?”

“I did, yes.”

“You want to? I mean…”

“I want to care for you, if you’ll let me. You deserve to be cared for.”

“You hardly know me, Myc. Come on, let’s find that food,” he encouraged. “I am starving. We’ll have time to discuss everything later.” 

The food was already laid out in the kitchen, a table set for the two of them. They took the cartons to the table and shovelled the food out, sharing between them. Greg nearly moaned with pleasure when he took the first mouthful. It was so good to be home.

“So, may one ask how it went?” Mycroft ventured to enquire.

Greg chewed thoughtfully before answering. “As well as these things can go,” he said eventually. “It’s never easy. We go where we’re needed, and usually it’s a disaster area, places of deprivation, war zones. I can be doing heart ops one day, amputations the next, suturing wounds, removing bullets....”

“What was it this time?”

“A mix of dentistry, trauma care and corrective heart surgery.”

“Something of a varied itinerary.” 

“You’re telling me.”

“Dentistry?”

“Young woman with impacted wisdom teeth.”

“My, you live an exciting life.”

“Too fucking exciting, believe me.” Mycroft heard the hitch in Greg’s voice, and looked across at him. 

“So, your… condition? I don’t suppose you have made any progress yet?” he asked, deflecting again.

“Oh, well, actually, I was talking to a colleague while I was away. He suggested some therapies I might be able to use to ease the symptoms, so I intend to talk to Matthew in Physio for advice. I...well, I intend to keep my hand in, as it were, with surgery as long as I am able, and Rayne can take some of the more delicate work on. I think I’m going to look into teaching.” 

“Teaching?”

“Lecturing, to be precise. There’s an opening at Imperial for a part time lecturer. I managed to email them while I was away. They’re interested in talking with me. I was...hoping you might be able to put a word in there…”

Mycroft glanced across at him with a smile. “I thought you didn’t care for nepotism?”

“Think of it more as a reference. I am going to need a few of those.”

Mycroft smiled. “Consider it done, although I think your reputation will speak for itself. Will you approach your father as well?”

“Hell no, not for a reference, but I might just ask him to have a word with a friend of his.”

“The Dean?”

“The Vice-Dean actually. They were at school together.”

Mycroft couldn’t suppress a grin. “So says the man who didn’t want me to know he had a daughter.” 

“Yeah, well, she’s young and I don’t want her resting on her laurels and riding on her old man’s reputation. If you cannot make it on your own merits, then why bother?”

“Oh, I completely understand, don’t worry.” 

“Actually, talking of nepotism, how was dad when you went back to work?” Greg asked. 

“Your father was...very understanding.”

Greg made a face. “Bet that was a bit…awkward?” 

“That does not adequately express my mortification.” Mycroft turned frosty. “He never mentioned your name when we talked about the hospital. If I had known…”

“Exactly. I asked him not to mention our connection if he spoke about it to anyone. If you had known you’d never have treated me normally, would you?”

“Probably not, but I may have stopped short of causing you such inconvenience.”

“And we’d probably never have crossed paths again, and I wouldn’t have been able to help you. Look, I’m sorry you were embarrassed, but that was your fault for trying to get me sacked.”

Mycroft sighed. “My penance, hm?”

“Consider it an end to the matter then?”

“Your father thought it a huge joke.”

“He would. Look, it won't have damaged his opinion of you, you know. If anything, it’ll have improved it. You’ve been through the wringer, Mycroft. Moreover, you’ve come out the other side, sanity intact. Let it go, you’re still here, and the old Mycroft is coming back too, if I’m any judge, although I am sad to say I didn’t know that man. From all accounts he was a good one. Out of interest, Dad never mentioned you to me either.”

Mycroft paused and took a thoughtful sip of his tea. “Yes, well, I was thinking, last night. Victor ...my partner, he...he was an artist, a sculptor. I thought maybe I might endow a trust fund in his name, a bursary for sculpture students at his old university. What do you think?”

“I think that sounds wonderful, Mycroft. Keep his memory alive and help people into the bargain. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a great idea.” 

They finished their meal and Mycroft guided them to the living room, turning down the lights and turning up the fire. The spacious room managed to be cosy too, with one wall lined with books, another with two tall—now curtained—windows, and a third occupied by a huge wall-mounted flat-screen television. A few rather sinuous but tasteful stone sculptures decorated the space, making Greg want to reach out and touch. “Wow, Mycroft, this room is….amazing.” He reached for one of the sculptures but drew his hand back, realising it might not be welcomed.

“Touch if you wish,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg’s imagination jumped immediately to another situation in which he might hear those words. He battened down his wayward imagination and reached to stroke the smooth stone. “Tuscan Carrara marble,” Mycroft explained. “White and translucent. Quite beautiful.”

“One of Victor’s?”

“They all are. One for each of our anniversaries.”

“What a wonderful idea.” Greg caressed the smooth lines, the sweeping curves, like gusts of wind given substance. “He was a talented man.”

Mycroft smiled wistfully, his eyes tracking Greg’s hand as he touched— _no, caressed—_ the object. “He was. Do take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Now, can I get you a drink?”

“What have you got?”

“Single malt? I have Talisker Skye or Glen Garioch, or a creditable Aberfeldy. I have sherry, a nice cabernet, a sauvignon blanc, or brandy…”

“Think a nice single malt would be good. What do you recommend?”

“Let me pour you the Glen Garioch, see what you think.”

Once they had their drinks, Mycroft regarded Greg as he leaned back into the comfort of the sofa. “You said in your card there were things to discuss.”

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

“Well, we have all weekend. There is no rush.”

“That’s good. I think...might need some time to think, Mycroft.”

“Gregory…exactly how bad was it?” For a moment he thought Greg might not reply, but then the man took a deep swallow of his drink and closed his eyes.

“It wasn’t pleasant,” he said, softly. “There was that air strike that hit our hospital, the one at Rizah, killed one of our colleagues. She was a volunteer like myself, and five Yemeni medical staff died as well. Then another bomb went off about half a mile from the hospital in. Flattened a school. A fucking school. We had to deal with the survivors. Christ…” he swiped his eyes. “Kids. Who does that to kids?”

“Unfortunately war is no respecter of age or status. At least, there was something you could effect by being there.”

“Yeah, well, trauma care is one of my specialisations, but...God… It’s not something you can easily understand if you’re not a parent, but those poor folks, waiting to hear if their kid was okay, wondering if they’d be burying them before the day was out.” Greg looked haunted. “They’re just babies, Myc. Babies.” 

“As I said, your presence was...admirable. Selfless.” 

“Well...” He took a deep breath. “I am most likely not going back. I made my decision. By next year, my arthritis will have probably made it impossible for me to operate successfully.” Greg bit his lip thoughtfully.

“You don’t know that, surely?”

“Well, no, but…it’s a reason. I don’t think I can return… This last few weeks have been the hardest I've ever experienced.”

“Don’t, Gregory.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t consider that your arthritis is a convenient excuse. I can see the way your mind is working. You are wondering whether you are taking the coward’s way out by using your condition to explain why you are not returning.”

“Ouch. That’s...close to the bone, Myc.”

“Of course it is. Your arthritis is a plausible excuse for not returning to surgical duties in a war zone, but no sane person would want to suffer that environment…”

“Oh, so now I’m nuts, is that it?”

“...for long, Gregory. The fact you chose to go for the best of reasons speaks very highly of you, but you are a volunteer, not a front line army medic. You have not been trained to operate under fire and as such, your actions have been above and beyond, in my humble opinion.”

“Thank you for that.”

“However, you should not feel guilty. You have faced it for...how many years?”

“This was my sixth time.”

“And you know when to quit. Listen to your gut feeling on this, Gregory, and do not give in to self doubt. You are not a coward.”

“Not even when I wrote you that card?”

“Not even then. Gregory, your card was...eloquent, and very poignant, and also very kind. I was surprised you sent a Valentine, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, I...I do understand that you are...well, you were married. To a woman. So I was...well...so sure you were...straight. It was in the back of my mind you might have been...experimenting.”

“Well, I may have been married to a woman for twenty years but I am not straight, not by any means, and I am not experimenting. Now, does that put a different perspective on things for you?”

“I...well.” Mycroft blinked. _Thinking back, it should have been obvious from the ‘nice arse’ comment, among other things._ He took a steadying breath. “Not in the slightest.”

“Liar.” Greg was grinning at him.

“Does it put a different slant on things from your perspective?” Mycroft asked.

“Well, if you mean do I find you attractive, Hell yes, I always have. You are one sexy bastard in those suits of yours. However, I’m older than you by a good decade. Doesn’t that bother you?” 

_Me, sexy?_ Mycroft’s thoughts were in danger of derailment. “It hasn’t so far. You are...the hospital’s resident silver fox, I believe. Your age has never been an issue.” 

Greg nearly choked on his whisky with laughter. “So am I to take it from that you don’t find me completely repulsive?”

“In no way do I find you repulsive, Gregory. I would have thought that was obvious. Am I to gather this is what you meant by _things to discuss_?”

“Among other things, yes. One of those things concerns handing your care over to Rayne on a more permanent basis.”

“I thought you already had.”

“No, I mean _permanently_ permanently.”

“Why on earth…?”

“Mycroft, I can’t enter into a relationship of any kind with a patient. That’s both unethical and unprofessional. I could get struck off for that.”

Mycroft paused, eyes wide. He swallowed, audibly. “You would be...open to entering into a relationship? With me?” 

“If you wanted, yes, but at your pace, Myc, not mine. If you’re sure it’s not too soon for you. It’s only been a short while since my divorce, so I am a bit wary of starting again too.” 

“Where I am concerned, I think it’s time to let go of the past, Gregory. I have also done some difficult thinking over the time you have been away, but particularly last night. Victor was a wonderful person, but he’s gone. Not forgotten, he never will be, but he has gone. From my life and my bed, if not my mind. I have the rest of that life to live, and I can no longer do so in a bubble of anger and spite. It is not me, as my brother pointed out somewhat vociferously. Nor do I believe Victor would have wanted me to be that way. Sherlock is desperate to have me back as I was, and while I am not sure that can ever be perfectly managed, I think I am open to trying to move on, as it were. I do not want to be lonely.”

“Admirable sentiment, in my book. You take your time, though, and if anything gets too much, let me know, okay?” Mycroft found himself treated to another of Greg’s blinding smiles. 

“Likewise, Gregory. If you find anything becoming too much, too pressuring, then please tell me. I would not want to cause you more pain than I already have.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Greg leaned in and gently placed a soft kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. He drew back and gazed into the man’s startled blue eyes. “Sorry, did I overstep the bounds?”

“N.n.no, not at all. I was...just a little startled.”

“Yeah, sorry, I should have asked…”

“No, it’s...fine. As I said, you surprised me, that’s all. I’m not offended.”

“Would you be up for…well, more of the same? I mean… we’re safe, in the privacy of your home. I just….wondered…”

“Wondered what, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice had dropped almost to nothing, breathy and uncertain. 

“I have thought about kissing you for the best part of the last five weeks, more than a few times I was left wondering if I would survive to do so. Now I’m here, in your home, I was hoping to do it properly.”

“Then please, don't let me stop you,” Mycroft urged, seeing another warm smile blossom, then the man leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s in a searching kiss. 

Mycroft lost himself in the taste and feel of Greg's mouth on his, the sensations sending shockwaves through his body. He was immediately and unequivocally aware of the power radiating through Greg's body, the strength of the arms that slid around his back to hold him close, the rock-steady body he was held against. When Greg pulled back a little, eyes blown dark and face flushed with arousal, Mycroft wondered at his good fortune. _Someone else sees me like you did, my love,_ he thought. _And I know you would have liked him...He’ll keep me safe, like you did. Hasn’t he already done so?_

Greg scrutinised Mycroft’s face for doubts, but found none. The man's expression had gone thoughtful. “Everything alright, love?” he asked, cautiously. 

“Oh, yes, I'm fine, only...Martha Hudson was right,” he said gently, one hand resting on Greg’s chest, over his heart. 

“How so?” Greg asked. “What did she say?”

Mycroft leaned in again and returned the kiss, this time a gentle pressure of his lips on Greg’s. He stepped back and gazed into the dark eyes, suddenly alight with promise. “Only that you are a brilliant surgeon,” he said, allowing a warm smile to blossom on his face, letting it reach his eyes, crinkling the skin around them. “I would agree wholeheartedly with the good woman, despite the sentiment attached to her comment. After all, no matter how cliched it might sound, you really have succeeded in putting my heart back together, and in more ways than just one.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work has not been seen by a Beta, so if you spot mistakes, please do flag and I shall attempt to rectify quickly. I have altered dates, timings, names and bloody places so often I hope to have caught them all but my brain is mush after being ill again... Twice since xmas, so put any anomalies down to sheer exhaustion and my brain dribbling out through my ears... ;)


End file.
